


Torn Sleeves and Kelpies

by elizabethgee



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Biting, Bottom Geralt, But not between Geralt/Jaskier, Creepy people creepin' on Jaskier, Dirty Talk, Geralt on potions, Getting Together, Gore, Harassment, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Monsters, Potentially Dubious Consent, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rough Sex, Seduction, Smut, Top Jaskier, Violence, Voyeurism, an excessive amount of blushing, bottom jaskier, mild booty slapping, possessive geralt, potential bottom Geralt, top geralt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: A series of one shots.Chapter 1. Jaskier suffers some unwanted attention. Geralt takes care of it.Chapter 2. Jaskier gets into a spot of trouble and Geralt's not equipped to deal with it rationally...especially when he's hopped up on potions.Chapter 3. Geralt returns from a hunt, but there's something off with the potions he took...Chapter 4. Jaskier knows he'll win this bet...Chapter 5. Jaskier is kidnapped, and Geralt feels a bit possessive.Chapter 6. Jaskier occasionally gets an itch for a very specific thing...the question is: will Geralt give it to him?Chapter 7. 5 + 1. Geralt learns things about Jaskier's body as they get closer. Little does he know that Jaskier has learned things about Geralt's body as well.Chapter 8. Geralt is injured, but that doesn't stop him from getting his bard into bed.Chapter 9. Geralt has a routine with sex, but Jaskier changes everything.Chapter 10. Geralt misinterprets an overheard conversation, much to Jaskier's annoyance.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 139
Kudos: 1143





	1. Torn Sleeves and Kelpies

The Red Gate inn is far too crowded for Geralt’s taste, even hidden at a secluded table in the corner as far from the crowd as possible, and he knows Jaskier is feeling uncomfortable with the rambunctious patrons as well. The bard handles the rowdy crowd well between his songs— throwing in jokes and prods and winks to keep people in line. But Geralt sees the relief in his shining eyes when he plops down across from Geralt for a break, running a hand through his hair and grimacing at Geralt.

“Place is a bit rowdier than we’re used to, don’t you think,” he asks. Geralt grunts in agreement and slides the drink across the table. Jaskier smiles at him and takes a hefty gulp; bright and sunny and beautiful in the dim candle light, and Geralt feels his lips twitch in response.

“I wouldn’t waste your time with that one, bard,” a low voice calls. Geralt swings his eyes around to find the source of the interruption— a man at the table to next to theirs. Several rather broad men are sitting there, and the man who spoke is clearly drinking heavily tonight. He’s tall, strong, with a strong, pointed nose and sharp eyes. Geralt thinks of a hungry snake, testing the air with a forked tongue before slithering out for it’s prey.

“Um, excuse me,” Jaskier asks, eyes darting between Geralt and the interloper.

Jaskier’s confused eyes blink at the man as he stands up and walks to loom by their table. Geralt notes the heavy chainmail, mud coated boots, the scruff of unshaved beard starting at his jaw. A soldier, then.

“I said it’s not worth your time. That one can’t feel anything for you,” the man tilts his chin to indicate Geralt, “whereas I— Raymond— can feel _everything_ for you,” he sneers, gripping himself obscenely through his pants and Geralt curls his lip at the horrible waft of drunken arousal emanating from the man. The men at Raymond’s table hoot and holler, enjoying the show, even more so as Jaskier blushes bright pink in shocked embarrassment.

Geralt stands up, turning his shoulders towards the drunkard. Silence descends in the bar and Geralt feels his eyes expanding, taking in everything in the shadows, preparing to fight—

“Geralt, don’t,” Jaskier whispers, fingers ghosting along his bicep, hesitant.

“Better listen to the boy, Witcher. You don’t want to start a fight here,” Raymond says, squaring his shoulders despite the acrid spike of fear in his scent. Geralt looks down at Jaskier, taking in his wide blue eyes and tense shoulders, and sits back down with a sneer despite the overwhelming urge to rip this man’s head off. He knows from experience: people will take any excuse to throw him out of their town.

Raymond leans down into Jaskier’s space, ignoring Jaskier’s blatantly uncomfortable body language. Geralt grips the hilt of his blade beneath tucked against his thigh beneath the table top, ready.

“When you decide to bed a real man, come find me,” Raymond smirks, eyes darting to Geralt’s, daring.

“Great, yes, thank you, bye,” Jaskier mumbles, hiding his face with a hand, eyes darting around to avoid looking at Raymond.

Raymond and his sidekicks make their way out of the bar, huffing and posturing the entire way, and the atmosphere lightens significantly with their absence. Geralt slowly looks around the room, making deliberate eye contact with the nosy patrons until they look away out of discomfort and resume their conversations.

“Well that was mortifying,” Jaskier cringes, chugging some of Geralt’s drink and tugging at his high collar.

“Perhaps we should retire for the evening,” Geralt suggests, suddenly wanting to be alone with Jaskier— even if it is just to sleep. As infuriatingly disrespectful as Raymond’s insinuations were, Geralt also feels the well-aimed barb of hurt at knowing Jaskier _isn’t_ his. He’s highly aware of his unreciprocated feelings for the bard, but it’s a fantasy, and Geralt wouldn’t dream of making Jaskier uncomfortable by letting his feelings be known.

Jaskier sighs and stands, leading them out of the crowded space and into the fresh night air. It’s warm— summer is approaching— and they can walk freely without the need for coats or extra layers.

Geralt watches Jaskier lead the way back to their lodgings for the week— The Gargling Dragon: a small, cozy inn owned by a kind elderly couple and their adopted daughter. Jaskier walks down the center of the deserted road, singing whatever pieces of song come to mind and waving his arms around, twisting to smile and wink at Geralt sporadically. Geralt wants to freeze this moment forever and keep it locked away in his memories to retrieve on cold, lonely nights.

\---

Geralt spends the next day planning how he’ll approach fulfilling the contract he’s made with the owners of The Gargling Dragon. A kelpie has recently settled in their nearby lake and it’s making fishing impossible for the townspeople. Just several days previous, the kelpie snagged it’s first human: a child looking to play in the water.

Jaskier wants to go with him, like always, but Geralt is firm in this decision. He usually gives in, but a kelpie is not to be messed with, and he won’t be able to effectively kill the monster if he’s worried about Jaskier.

“I’ll be back tonight,” Geralt says, pulling on his armor, “Kelpies are more active during the night, so it’ll be easier to sneak up on it in the evening hours, before it’s feeding time.”

He glances at Jaskier in his pristine bard outfit: puffy ruby colored sleeves, tight pants, shiny black boots, and debates warning him against going back to yesterday’s inn of choice.

But no— Jaskier can look out for himself, so Geralt just nods and grabs his swords, stepping out into the warm air.

\---

He’s exhausted. The kelpie turned out to be two kelpies— a mated pair— and they gave him quite a bit of trouble. Now he’s covered in mud and kelpie blood and smells of lake, but the monsters are dead and his contract has been fulfilled. He shoves the door to their small room open, and gods he can’t wait to have a bath and fall into bed—

He freezes in the doorway, heart clenching hard. Jaskier’s wide, terrified eyes swing to his with a yelp of shock. Jaskier looks like he’s been mauled. The pristine outfit he was wearing this morning is rumpled and covered in dirt, and one of the puffy, ridiculous sleeves is torn at the shoulder. But what makes Geralt’s heart squeeze is the smell of blood; light in the air but present enough to tell Geralt that Jaskier is actively bleeding.

And as he gets closer he notices bruises blooming along Jaskier’s jaw and under his right eye, and there’s a cut at his temple— vibrant red blood seeping into the white cloth Jaskier is holding to his head to stem the flow.

“What happened,” Geralt asks, voice flat. Jaskier turns his face away, rubbing the fingers of his free hand together in a familiar anxious tic.

“It’s nothing, just a minor disagreement—“

It’s a lie, and if it’s bad enough that Jaskier thinks he has to lie to Geralt—

“Dandelion,” Geralt tries, kneeling at Jaskier’s side and reaching up to tap at his jaw, avoiding the darkening bruise. The nickname gets Jaskier to make eye contact, and he looks so _hurt_ that Geralt wants to look away.

“Tell me what happened,” Geralt requests.

“Did you kill the kelpie?”

“Yes, don’t prevaricate. What happened?”

Jaskier hesitates and Geralt knows he’s going to hate whatever Jaskier says next—

“I went to The Red Gate to sing.”

“Hm,” Geralt prompts.

“And it was pretty wild,” Jaskier says, fingers going to the hem of his destroyed shirt and twisting.

“Was it Raymond,” Geralt asks. Jaskier flinches and Geralt clenches his fists.

“What did he do,” Geralt isn’t sure he wants the answer, but he has to know what level of violence he should mete out.

“He just said some things…you know…shoved me around a bit.”

“Looks like more than ‘a bit,’” Geralt says, trying to keep his voice modulated.

Jaskier shrugs a shoulder and Geralt makes up his mind, standing and carefully leaving his swords against the doorway.

“Where are you going,” Jaskier asks, voice small.

“I’m gonna order a bath for you,” he says, _then I’m going to find that Raymond guy and kill him_.

He orders the bath then storms out onto the dark street, grateful for the cover of the dim evening light as he makes his way to The Red Gate.

Geralt pauses outside the loud inn, pressing his hand against the cold stone wall façade to try and calm himself. He forces his shoulders to relax, then slips in the front door, heading towards the bar.

“Oh, it’s you,” a bar maids says, looking not at all surprised to see him.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” she admits, eyeing him up with vague interest. She puts down the cloudy glass she was wiping down and puts her hands on her hips, waiting for him to speak.

“You were expecting me,” he asks, raising a brow.

“Daisy,” she provides, pouring a drink and handing it to a grizzled old man sitting at the end of the bar “and I was hoping you’d show up to give Raymond and his men what-for.”

Geralt’s lip twitched in rage at the name.

“They’re here?”

“Over in the corner,” she gestures with a rag, “the things they said to that bard…”

“What did they say?”

She pauses, looking around as though checking for eavesdroppers, then leans over the bartop to speak as quietly as possible in the din.

“They called him a ‘Witcher’s whore.’ Said some other more lewd things— what they’d like to do to him. Poor boy— I don’t think he could’ve been more embarrassed. He’s a good lad though— he stuck up for you. Called them out on their hypocrisy.”

Geralt grates his teeth together. _Damn it, Jaskier._

“And then they started pushing him around a bit when he left—I saw it through the window,” she gestures to the large bay windows that line the front of the Inn, “but our security called them off,” Daisy says, going back to wiping down the lines of glasses in front of her.

Geralt pulls several oren out of his purse and slides them across the bartop.

“For the information,” he says, and she smirks at him.

“I woulda told you either way. It’s not right, what they did. Be careful though, they’re rough men.”

“I’m rougher,” Geralt says, turning and heading towards Raymond.

He takes immense satisfaction in walking up behind the seated Raymond and watching Raymond’s men slowly notice him. They all turn fearful eyes to him, and he must look a sight: enraged, hulking, spattered with swamp mud and kelpie blood.

Raymond finally notices something wrong with his men and twists in his chair, coming face to face with Geralt’s groin. Raymond flinches and stands, stumbling a bit with drink.

“Hey now, look who’s decided to show up,” Raymond sneers into his face.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, waiting to hear how dumb Raymond will be on his own accord.

“Have you come to defend the bard’s honor? A bit late, I’d guess. I only told that little bard the truth.”

“Truth,” Geralt prompts.

“That he looked like he could use a good fuck,” Raymond says, getting closer, drink-fueled bravado making him grin in Geralt’s face.

“Raymond,” one of his companions mumbles, clearly not as drunk and highly aware of how close to violence Geralt was. Raymond leans towards Geralt, whispering:

“That I’d split him open, fuck him better than any mutant would. Hold him down and fill him up ‘til he cried—“

Geralt slams his head forward, head butting Raymond. The man yelps and falls back into the table, but Geralt’s on him before he can recover, gripping the front of Raymond’s sweat soaked shirt and slamming his knuckles into the man’s cheek, feeling teeth crack. He’s peripherally aware of people screaming and backing away from the violence, but Geralt is blind with rage.

He can see it in his mind’s eye: Raymond spewing that filth in Jaskier’s ears— how Jaskier would shrink in horror, the way his eyes would fall to the ground and he’d back away, trying to make himself small. The way his cheeks would go bright red and mortified.

He grips Raymond’s neck, squeezing hard, feeling ligaments strain under his grasp and Raymond’s face immediately goes red with trapped blood.

He leans close, reaching down and gripping Raymond’s dick through his pants and twisting hard. Raymond yelps, blood spilling from his mouth, and Geralt snarls in his face.

“If you even look in his direction again, I’ll kill you for the monster you are,” Geralt growls, spit flying and landing on Raymond’s horror slack face.

“Do you understand me?”

Raymond nods frantically, choking on blood, hands grappling ineffectively at the hand around his throat.

Geralt lets go, stepping away and storming out of the now silent inn, not caring what anyone thinks or says of him, not caring if he gets kicked out of this fucking town—

He doesn’t remember the walk back to The Gargling Dragon, but he pauses outside their room, bracing his hands against the doorframe and staring at his boots, breathing slowly.

He has half a mind to go back and kill the man, but the silver door knob clicks open and he blinks rapidly, trying to clear the anger from his gaze as Jaskier peers out at him.

“You coming in,” Jaskier asks, voice hesitant.

He looks better: bathed and dressed for bed in a loose nightshirt and soft linen pants. His hair is clean and he smells of pine and citrus. Geralt wants to pin him to the mattress and kiss him until they both forget about Raymond.

“Where’d you go,” Jaskier asks as Geralt walks towards the bathing room, wanting to clean the swamp mud off. He replays the feel of Raymond’s teeth breaking under his fist.

Geralt debates lying.

“I ordered you a bath. Then I found Raymond and told him to back off.”

Jaskier’s blue eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. He’s very pretty, despite the bruising, and Geralt starts pulling at his armor to distract himself.

“You what?”

“I ordered you a bath. Then I found—“

“Yes, I heard you the first time,” Jaskier moves to stand in front of Geralt.

“He’s still alive, right?”

“He shouldn’t be,” Geralt growls, low, and he can’t stop himself from reaching out and brushing his clumsy fingers as carefully as he can across the bruising along Jaskier’s jaw. Something soft and tentative flickers to life in Jaskier’s eyes and he lifts a hand to ghost along Geralt’s against his jaw.

“Geralt—“

Geralt cuts him off, pressing his lips to Jaskier’s, forcing himself to go slow, to be careful. But gods, Jaskier’s lips are just as soft as he had imagined, and the bard tilts his head back and sighs, opening for him. Geralt rumbles in approval and disbelief, stepping closer and letting his hand slide back to cup the nape of Jaskier’s neck.

“Tell me ‘no,’” Geralt says, voice like gravel against stone.

“I won’t,” Jaskier mumbles against Geralt’s jaw, pressing kisses along the hinge and down his neck, hot lips dragging against Geralt’s pulse. Geralt clenches his hands into Jaskier’s soft shirt, right at his waist, wanting to tear the clothing off—

“Tell me to stop,” Geralt says, feeling arousal fill his groin, painful with the quick shift from rage to lust.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier whispers, looking up at him with wide, cornflower blue eyes, “please.”

Gut punched, Geralt slides his hands down to the back of Jaskier’s thighs and picks him up, carrying him to the lone mattress in the room and laying him down. He steps back, pulling off his thick armor, cursing it for blocking him from Jaskier’s touch.

Jaskier pulls his own sleep clothes off, flinging the articles aside with uncharacteristic disregard. Geralt pauses to take him in. They’ve seen each other nude before, but Geralt hasn’t seen this: Jaskier laying in bed, waiting for him, chest heaving in arousal, erection hot and thick against his belly, and the smell of him—

Geralt’s groin aches with heat and he pulls the rest of his clothes off, taking immense pleasure in how Jaskier’s eyes go hungry and wanton at the sight of him.

Geralt steps up to the side of the bed, planning to pin Jaskier down, but the bard suddenly sits up and slides to sit on the edge of the mattress, knees bracketing Geralt’s thighs, and Geralt’s breath hitches at the sight of Jaskier so close to his erection. Jaskier must know exactly what he’s thinking, because he looks up at Geralt with wide, innocent eyes and his pink tongue darts out to moisten his lips.

“May I—?”

Geralt nods quickly in response, gripping his dick and holding it steady for Jaskier. The bard smiles and leans close, hands going to the back of Geralt’s strong thighs and pressing his closed lips against the aching head of Geralt’s erection, soft and hot and slick with saliva. Geralt’s left knee twitches, but he forces himself to stay steady as Jaskier explores him with his mouth: pressing soft kisses along the length, opening his mouth to press sucking kisses along the fat vein on the way back up towards the leaking head.

Jaskier licks across the slit, pleasure shocking a breath out of Geralt, and he’s about to growl at Jaskier to _get on with it_ when the bard opens his mouth and takes the head in, slowly. He closes his lips around the head and _sucks_.

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns. Jaskier reaches a hand up, takes Geralt’s unoccupied hand in his, and pull it back to fist in Jaskier’s hair.

Hesitant, Geralt gently tangles his fingers in Jaskier’s soft brown waves and gives a delicate tug. Jaskier moans and shoots a significant look up at him. Geralt figures it out and slowly, carefully begins pulling back and pushing in, holding Jaskier steady as he fucks into the bard’s mouth.

It’s intoxicating— the trust Jaskier has placed in him— and he would rather die than betray that trust, so he is slow, and careful, to the point where Jaskier grumbles around him and grips his thighs hard, trying to pull him closer. Some day, Geralt will work up to fucking Jaskier’s throat, but for now he enjoys this tease—

Geralt feels heat cresting in him at the sight of Jaskier’s pretty lips rubbed red and slick with saliva, stretched around his erection, and Jaskier hums around him and the vibration is too much—

He pulls away, watching himself pulse and spill across Jaskier’s open mouth and Jaskier sticks his tongue out to catch his spend and Geralt doesn’t think he heart can beat faster.

Before he falls into the syrupy feel of orgasm he grips Jaskier’s chin and tilts the bard’s head up to capture his lips, pressing his tongue into Jaskier’s mouth, tasting himself and the bard together.

Jaskier _sighs_ , like he’s content, and Geralt leans down and grips him around the waist, pulling him up onto the mattress, twisting them so Jaskier is straddling Geralt’s hips.

Jaskier is shocked by the sudden change in position, but before he can recover Geralt grips Jaskier’s erection, hot and hard and dripping copiously. And the bard is close to coming; his breathing is ragged and he squirms in Geralt’s grips, shivering.

Geralt promises himself they’ll take this slower next time, but for now he just needs to see Jaskier come from his touch and his touch alone. He rubs his thumb into the dripping head and Jaskier braces himself with his hands on the mattress at either side of Geralt’s waist.

“Geralt, slow down,” he gasps, “I’m going to—“

Geralt tugs at Jaskier’s hair with his free hand, jacking him quickly with the other, relishing the slick, obscene sounds in the night air.

“Come on me, bard. Now.”

Jaskier obeys with a gasp, knees squeezing against Geralt’s hips and back curling. Hot, sticky liquid spatters across Geralt’s chest. It’s by far the more erotic thing Geralt has ever seen, and Geralt feels his spent dick twitch against his thigh with residual arousal.

Jaskier collapses at Geralt’s side, loose and warm, chest heaving with exertion.

Geralt can tell when Jaskier starts to come back from his high (far quicker than Geralt would prefer, and he’ll have to work on wearing Jaskier out in the future) because he’s starting to blush and squirm with embarrassment again, and Geralt won’t have that— not when Jaskier is with him— so he tugs until Jaskier lays down on top of him and Geralt can run his hand through Jaskier’s mussed hair.

“We need another bath,” Jaskier says in the quiet air, hand rubbing along Geralt’s belly and jumping when the Witcher laughs.


	2. enhanced potions and the blacksmith's assitant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2. Jaskier gets into a spot of trouble and Geralt's not equipped to deal with it rationally...especially when he's hopped up on potions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains attempted rape between OC/Jaskier.

Geralt huffs, flinching at the rain as he walks through the small town back to The Chanting Siren inn. Jaskier will be there, and he can sleep off the rest of this potion. His shoulders relax at the thought.

He prefers not to use enhanced potions, but sometimes they’re necessary. He dislikes the extreme heightening of his already complex senses, and the comedown is terrible. He’s exhausted but on edge— everything is too much and he’s on the verge of snapping at anyone who so much as looks at him wrong.

The weather does nothing to improve his mood— sheets of rain pummeling the streets of the small town, road now muddy and sticky, gripping his boots as he trudges along.

He approaches The Chanting Siren, noting the sounds of a very rambunctious crowd within. There couldn’t be more than 40 people living in this little town, and it appears that they are all there, in that little inn, looking for companionship and warm food to stave off the winter weather.

At Geralt’s insistence, Jaskier stayed behind, and Geralt took comfort in the knowledge that Jaskier would be waiting, safe and warm, for Geralt’s return.

Geralt pauses outside the inn, standing in the middle of the road and sucking in deep lungfuls of clean air, relishing the smell of wet earth.

_Bang._

The inn's side door is shoved open and there's the sudden sound of a dark laugh and the high, shallow breathing of a human in distress. Geralt turns his head, listening down the narrow alleyway along the side of the inn. He knows that heartbeat—

“C’mon lad, you were keen just a second ago—“ a low voice cajoles, full of a nasty, dark amusement that has Geralt’s skin crawling.

“Let go of me!”

 _That’s Jaskier._ Geralt vaults the gate around the inn, walking quickly to the edge of the alleyway.

“You’re a bard, you should be _used_ to this—“

“Stop, please—“

Geralt’s stomach drops like a stone at the sight that greets him.

A large, burly red-headed man has Jaskier pinned to the side of the tavern, belly to the wood. The bard’s slender wrists are clenched in one of the man’s large fists, held up above Jaskier’s head. The man’s other hand is shoved down the front of the bard’s pants, gripping him harshly. The man’s loose pants are undone, hanging down around his hips, and Geralt can smell the assailant’s arousal as he starts to pull Jaskier’s pants down.

Jasker struggles, twisting in vain to get away from the man, breathing panicked and heart rate rabbit-fast. Geralt doesn’t think, pulling out his sword and pressing it carefully to the man’s neck. Geralt _recognizes_ this man—he’s the blacksmith’s assistant, Andrew. They had met in the inn several hours ago. Geralt’s rage mounts with the knowledge that he left this monster alone, with Jaskier, for _hours_ —

“Let go of him,” Geralt demands, voice rumbling along the dark alleyway. He’s hyper-focused, potion still thrumming through him: the sound of rain hitting the steel of his sword mixes with Jaskier’s panicked heartbeat, the smell of Andrew’s beer soaked breath and arousal mixing with rain soaked grass—

Andrew freezes at the feel of biting steel at his neck. Jaskier must recognize his voice, because he lets out a huff of panicked breath.

“Geralt,” he whispers, simultaneously embarrassed and relieved.

“Hey, he wanted—“ Andrew starts.

“Get your hands off of him,” Geralt says, aching to drive the sword into this man’s spine.

“This is none of your business,” Andrew snarls, tilting his head away from the steel blade.

“Geralt,” Jaskier begs, voice desperate under the din of the rain, “get him off of me.”

Geralt breaks. In one motion, he lowers his sword, grips Andrew’s neck, jamming his knee into the back of Andrew’s leg and slamming him to the ground. Geralt shifts to stand in front of Jaskier, blocking him from view as the assailant catches his breath.

“What’s stopping me from killing you,” Geralt asks, knuckles white around the hard hilt of his sword.

Andrew looks up and the blood leaves his face, pupils contracting to points. For once, Geralt is glad that someone’s scared of him. He knows how he looks on enhanced potions: eyes black pools, skin porcelain pale, black veins crawling along the skin of his face. Combine that with the fact that he’s covered in mud and rain and Wendigo blood...he must make an intimidating picture. Now it’s Andrew with the rapid-fire heart rate and stress sweat, staring up at him in the rain.

He feels Jaskier’s fingers tangle in rain soaked material of his shirt, tremoring fingers pressing against the small of his back.

“Geralt, don’t," Jaskier whispers, shivering behind the witcher's bulk.

Geralt becomes aware of his own heaving chest, the rage clenching his jaw, and he doesn’t want to listen to Jaskier defend this man. He doesn’t want this man to live after what he was going to do—

“If you don’t leave now, I will kill you,” Geralt promises with numb lips, digging the tip of his sword into the mud to avoid driving it into Andrew's belly. Andrew stumbles up, tripping over his own feet and sloshing through the puddles, slipping in his haste as he disappears into the dark rain.

Geralt turns around and the sight that greets him immediately makes him debate the merits of following Andrew and running him through with every weapon on his person.

Jaskier's terrified; shaking and pale, eyes shifting around without focus, and a suspiciously mouth-shaped bruise is starting to rise along his neck. The bard steps back, avoiding Geralt’s gaze and fumbling with the ties of his pants. His hands shake so much that he can’t do the buttons, and Geralt sheaths his blade, stepping close and hands reaching out to help.

Jaskier flinches away hard, back smacking into the log wall of the inn, and Geralt snaps his hands back, a sour feeling growing in his stomach.

“S-sorry,” Jaskier mumbles, rain dripping down his red cheeks and soaking his shirt. "Sorry. I'm not..."

“Let me help,” Geralt tries to make it a request. When Jaskier nods at the ground, Geralt reaches for his the bard's pants again, carefully doing up the buttons along the front with slow movements, making sure to avoid touching Jaskier’s skin.

When the buttons are all done up, Geralt steps back, giving Jaskier space to breathe.

“Are you okay,” Geralt asks, scrutinizing.

Jaskier lets out a terrible fake laugh and nods.

“Yes, I’m okay. Sometimes people mistake what a bard’s services actually entail…” Jaskier tries to brush off his distress, but he's still shivering and not from the cold.

“This has happened before?”

Jaskier hunches his shoulders, avoiding Geralt’s gaze.

“Jaskier—“

“Don’t, Geralt,” Jaskier pleads, voice delicate, “please.”

Geralt wants to press the issue, wants to know who would _dare_ —

But Jaskier looks like he’s going to pass out, either from exhaustion or shame or both, so Geralt gives in and gestures to the tavern.

“Let’s go inside, order a bath,” he suggests.

Jaskier nods, relieved, and stumbles towards the entry, not wanting to go in the way he came out. He suddenly freezes and spins around to look up at Geralt, bright eyes wide and worried. Geralt flinches back and looking away, not wanting Jaskier to see _this_ —

“Are you okay? Are you injured? Did you get the wendigo?”

Geralt looks back up at Jaskier’s rapid questioning.

“You’re not hurt, are you,” Jaskier asks, looking the witcher up and down.

“No, I’m fine,” he says, baffled by Jaskier's easy acceptance.

“Okay,” Jaskier says, heart rate slowing again. “Okay, good. C’mon.”

Geralt is so blindsided by Jaskier’s lack of response to his wild appearance that he stands, helpless and still in the pouring rain, for a long moment. This has never happened before. People always balk and cringe from him. The always smell of fear and sweat and piss. They don’t….ask if he’s hurt.

“Geralt, please, I want to wash the feeling of that creep's hands off my skin,” Jaskier mumbles, fingers brushing along Geralt's tense forearm.

They’re quiet as they bathe and change into their sleep clothes. Geralt's pleased to notice the effects of the enhanced potion wearing off, and that combined with the adrenaline crash is making exhaustion hit with a fresh vengeance. Jaskier is acting normal, though Geralt notes the occasional flinch and tremble in his hands. Geralt silently vows to himself to take better care in watching out for the bard.

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to Jaskier. He wants to be reassuring. He wants to ask about the expectations of being a traveling bard. He wants to curl around Jaskier and protect him.

“I’m going to teach you some self defense moves in the morning,” Geralt says instead, watching Jaskier crawl into bed. Jaskier snorts out a soft laugh and grins tiredly up at him.

“Fine. Whatever. Sounds great. Just—as long as it’s in the morning. Come sleep.”

And he shifts the blankets down for Geralt to lie next to him. When Geralt doesn’t move, Jaskier blinks up at him.

“What’s wrong,” Jaskier asks, voice slurring with exhaustion.

“I could sleep on the floor,” Geralt suggests, hating the thought, but if it makes Jaskier more comfortable—

But his suggestion has the opposite effect. Jaskier turns away sharply, but not before Geralt catches the quick look of hurt that settles across Jaskier’s brow.

“Fine, if you want to,” Jaskier says, turning his back to Geralt and laying down.

“I don’t want to,” Geralt gets out, strangled. _Jaskier has to know_ —

“I don’t want to,” he says again, waiting for Jaskier’s gaze to meet his.

“Just— are you sure you’re okay with me…” Geralt's voice fails him and he grimaces, uncomfortable and wrong footed. How could Jaskier feel safe with Geralt in bed with him?

But Jaskier sits up, putting his face in his hands, frustrated. He sighs deeply, then looks up at the witcher.

“Come here, Geralt,” he says, voice gentle and full of a horrible understanding. Something cracks wide open in Geralt’s heart and, to avoid looking at the feeling too closely, he slides into bed and lies facing Jaskier.

The bard tangles one of his hands into Geralt’s, fingers entwined.

“Stop worrying, you big lug,” Jaskier smiles, eyes beautiful and open.

“I’m not scared of you.”

The words make Geralt squint, hating how torn open he feels, but Jaskier just squeezes Geralt's fingers and curls up with a mumbled, “go to sleep.”

Geralt knows they’ll wake up tangled together, limbs twined and scents mixed together. He closes his eyes.


	3. firelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3. Geralt returns from a hunt, but there's something off with the potions he took...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If rough sex/Geralt having sex while on potions squicks you, go ahead and pass on this one. :)

“Geralt?”

Jaskier’s eyes scan the shadows, unable to see anything beyond the light of their fire. It’s near midnight, and Geralt has been gone long enough that the sun has disappeared below the horizon. Jaskier had grumbled about building a fire alone, but he could admit to himself that it was faux annoyance to cover his anxiety. He’s never seen Geralt on potions, and he had taken several small vials with him as he left to take care of the wraith hassling a nearby village. But if the monster was strong enough that Geralt was taking not one, but three shiny little vials with him, then Jaskier felt validated in his worry about the witcher.

There’s another shuffling rustle from the shadows.

“Geralt,” he calls again, struggling to keep his voice steady, “is that you?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice rumbles in the dark.

Relief floods him, and Jaskier squints into the shadows to try and find the bulk of the witcher’s shoulders, but his human eyes are no comparison to the witcher’s enhanced senses and all he sees is darkness beyond their fire.

“Where are you? I can’t see you.”

A fallen branch cracks to his right and Jaskier’s anxiety ratchets up.

“Are you hurt,” he asks, shifting on his feet and twisting the cloth he was using to wipe down his lute between his fingers.

“Don’t move,” Geralt’s voice comes from behind him. It takes all of Jaskier’s willpower to stay still.

“What’s wrong,” he asks, head tilting to the side.

Geralt’s gloved hand slides around his waist, pulling him back against the witcher’s armored chest and holding him still, wide palm pressing against his stomach.

“Geralt?”

“You smell of fear.”

Jaskier grimaces.

“Yes, I was worried about you. You’ve been gone a while. Are you hurt?”

“No,” Geralt says, palm pressing into Jaskier’s stomach.

Jaskier feels the knot of anxiety loosen in his chest and he shivers as tension disperses from his shoulders. Geralt hums and presses his nose into the nape of Jaskier’s neck, inhaling deeply. Jaskier imagines he probably smells pretty terrible— sweat and dirt and smoke— but Geralt’s chest rumbles against his back and his tongue comes out to swipe along Jaskier’s skin.

The touch is so unexpected that Jaskier yelps and flinches, twisting. Geralt lets go of him immediately, as he always does when Jaskier so much at hints that he wants space.

His jaw drops as he finally gets a look at Geralt, lit up by Jaskier’s small fire. The potions must still be in his system. His skin is sapped of color— waxy and pale— and his eyes are pure, inky pools of black, watching Jaskier with an unnerving focus. The veins along his neck and temple are black, shocking and stark.

Jaskier carefully brings a hand up to press against Geralt’s jaw, hesitating for only a moment before touching his skin. For some reason he thought Geralt would be cold to the touch, but he’s _warm_. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his skin, and Jaskier runs his thumb along Geralt’s jaw before pulling his hand away, uncertain if the touch is welcome at the moment.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

Geralt nods, eyes boring into Jaskier. Arousal lights in his belly and he clears his throat, trying to quell it, but judging by Geralt’s tilted head he can smell Jaskier’s interest. Jaskier looks away, embarrassed.

“Sorry, darling. You’re just very attractive—“

Geralt presses his fingers to Jaskier’s chin and tilts his head back until they make eye contact. He drops his hands to Jaskier’s hips and squeezes.

“Geralt—“

“I’m okay, just…there was something off in one of the potions.”

Jaskier’s heart leaps, ice flooding him.

“What? How—“

“It’s fine,” Geralt cuts him off, one hand lifting to cup Jaskier’s face, thumb pressing against the side of his mouth, “I’m just …jumpy. On edge. It’ll pass.”

Jaskier does a quick scan, head to toe, taking in the tension in Geralt’s shoulders and the soft, fixated touch to his lips.

_Oh._

Jaskier feels his brow smooth out and he smiles.

“Can I help with that,” he teases, tilting his head back to show his neck in a may he knows Geralt likes. It works like a charm— Geralt’s eyes drop to his neck and he hums, frozen, waiting for permission.

Jaskier steps back and reaches for his bright green doublet, un-tucking it from his pants, watching the black of Geralt’s gaze track his movements. As Jaskier pulls the doublet down his shoulders Geralt is suddenly on him, gripping him around the waist and pushing him to the ground. Jaskier can’t stop a gasp from escaping him as Geralt bites at his neck, breathing suddenly heavy and shaky— as though he's been restraining himself and his control just snapped.

Jaskier has a moment of clarity and thinks, perhaps, he should not tease the witcher hopped up on potions—

Geralt pulls his doublet off with rough movements, tossing it aside with a frankly appalling lack of care for Jaskier’s clothes. Any concern over the state of his garments is quickly forgotten as Geralt’s fingers curl behind Jaskier’s knees, pulling his legs wide and sliding the bard along the leaf-strewn ground so his thighs bracket Geralt’s hips. Despite the ink filled gaze, Geralt’s expression is so hungry that Jaskier feels the heat of embarrassment fill his cheeks, blush crawling up his chest, showing at the deep cut of his undershirt.

Geralt’s eyes drop to the exposed skin of his chest and he leans down, biting at the blush running up Jaskier’s pectoral and making Jaskier yelp. He knows Geralt likes the sight of Jaskier in his underthings, and apparently Geralt on potions is no exception.

Geralt pulls his gloves off, tossing them aside and sliding his naked hands up Jaskier’s waist, pushing his shirt up and exposing his belly and chest. He drags his nails through the hair of Jaskier’s pectorals, growling at the shiver it provokes.

“Geralt—“

“Off,” Geralt demands, tugging at the material of his undershirt. Jaskier puts his arms up, letting Geralt pull the offending garment away, before he leans down at licks at one of Jaskier’s nipples, other hand coming up the rub his thumb against the other side of his chest. Jaskier yells, hips jolting up in surprise as Geralt closes his lips and _sucks_.

Jaskier’s hands flail to grip the armor around Geralt’s shoulders, feeling himself harden so quickly that it _hurts_ —

Geralt leans back and tugs at Jaskier’s pants, pulling them down his hips with rough movements and leaning to press their mouths together.

Geralt is usually very, very careful when they have sex. Jaskier loves it— the careful consideration, the romantic softness— but Jaskier finds himself sweating with arousal at this wild, unrestrained side of Geralt. Geralt licks into his mouth, pressing his jaw open and _taking_ —

“I need to be in you,” Geralt snarls, dragging his lips along Jaskier’s jawline to bite at Jaskier’s neck.

"Oh," Jaskier breathes, head swimming with arousal at Geralt's words.

Geralt fumbles with the buttons of his own pants, sucking kisses into Jaskier’s chest, no doubt leaving bruises all over—

Jaskier moves up onto his elbows and starts to slide back, reaching for his bag.

His breath is knocked from him as Geralt pins him to the earth with a broad hand against his belly, hot fingers pressing into his skin.

Geralt glares down at him with suspicious eyes, fire sending flickering light over his skin. He looks wild and dangerous, and Jaskier really, really wants to get the oil.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jaskier soothes, “I just wanted to grab the slick—“

Geralt presses harder against his belly, warning him to stay put, and in the blink of an eye retrieves the vial of oil and manhandles Jaskier onto his stomach. There’s the light sound of the vial of oil clicking open, and Jaskier suddenly feels terribly exposed—out in the woods, laying belly down and naked beneath the armored witcher, but it seems that Geralt has no intention of undressing.

He opens his mouth to protest the lack of mutual nudity, but it comes out as a moan when Geralt braces a hand against the soft, vulnerable skin of Jaskier’s lower back and presses an oil slicked finger into him, stretching him open. He spares a moment to be grateful that they had slept together the previous evening, or else he’d be flinching in discomfort as Geralt quickly presses a second finger into him, spreading the digits wide and twisting.

With that less than adequate preparation, Geralt shifts his grip to Jaskier’s hips and pulls him up onto his knees.

“Okay,” Geralt asks, voice still reverberating oddly in the witcher’s chest. Jaskier nods frantically— this is definitely more that okay—

Geralt’s braces his knees close behind Jaskier’s, hot erection slipping against his entrance with too much oil. Geralt huffs and reaches down, guiding himself into Jaskier, pressing fully into him with one long, smooth stroke. A shocked sound tears from Jaskier’s throat and he instinctively tries to pull away from the intrusion. Geralt growls low, grip turning to iron on Jaskier’s waist— a warning that makes the hair on Jaskier’s arms stand straight up. Despite the grumbling, Geralt stills with his hips pressed against Jaskier, petting along Jaskier’s sides and giving him time to adjust.

Jaskier breathes slowly, trying to relax his frayed nerves, erection leaking onto the leaves beneath him. It’s not long before Geralt starts shifting impatiently behind him, hips twitching minutely.

Jaskier takes a slow breath and presses back. It’s all the encouragement Geralt needs. He leans over Jaskier and rolls his hips into the bard with long, smooth strokes. His grip is bruising against the bard’s hips where he pulls Jaskier back onto his erection.

Geralt’s soft hair brushes against his skin as Geralt starts pressing biting kisses along his back, into the back of his neck— using his knees to shuffle Jaskier’s legs wider, trying to get closer, and Jaskier is going to cum without a hand on him. Geralt tilts his hips just right and Jaskier yells as pleasure lights up his spine. Geralt angles himself again, hitting the same spot within Jaskier over and over, the rolling of his hips becoming move frantic—

Jaskier is going to be sore tomorrow, and Geralt is going to grimace and worry and fuss, but right now Jaskier is lost in the euphoria of being claimed so thoroughly by the witcher. 

"Geralt, please—"

He’s starting to feel the strain in his thighs when Geralt slides a hand down to grip Jaskier’s leaking erection, jacking him in time with his thrusts. Jaskier moans and Geralt leans close, growling into his ear.

“Mine.”

Jaskier’s orgasm hits him hard and he yells out, fingers curling into the leaves beneath him as he spills into Geralt’s hand. Geralt follows him quickly, hips jerking hard and pressing as deep as he can, stilling with a deep groan against Jaskier’s back. He shivers against Jaskier's back, fingers clenched into the bard's skin.

Jaskier’s still breathing hard when Geralt pulls out of him. He can’t stop the whine of discomfort from escaping him at the movement, but Geralt is immediately there, turning him over and covering him, pressing kisses to his face and neck, hands running along his sides.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Jaskier gasps, chest heaving. Geralt rumbles happily, pressing his nose against Jaskier’s hair and breathing deeply.

“Don’t go to sleep, you big lug. We need to clean up—“

Geralt grumbles but quickly cleans them off with a cloth and some of their drinking water. Jaskier’s pleased to see the inky black dissipating from Geralt’s eyes as he pulls off his armor (finally) and fusses over Jaskier; bundling him in blankets and curling them together near the fire.

He’s _definitely_ going to be sore tomorrow, but it was so worth it, he thinks as Geralt wraps a protective arm around him and buries his face in Jaskier’s hair, sighing deeply as they drift off to sleep.


	4. that's not how bets work, jaskier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier knows he'll win this bet...

Geralt clocks Jaskier by his heartbeat as soon as he steps into the overcrowded tavern— the bard is in the middle of the room, chatting with a couple townspeople. Geralt heads towards the bar, eager for a drink and ignoring the usual sharp glances and suspicious whispers as he slides through the crowd.

Luckily the silent bartender doesn’t give him any trouble, handing over a dark beer and some bread without so much as a grunt. Settling into a dark corner, Geralt’s surprised to find the beer is actually decent for such a small town. Even better, the bread is freshly made—a dark wheat with a hearty flavor and a crunchy, flaking crust.

He hears Jaskier break away from his conversation and saunter over to Geralt’s corner.

“I love how you sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier smirks, harking back to their first meeting nearly a year ago. Geralt quirks an brow up at him and suspicion crawls up his spine. Jaskier looks both tipsy and smug, leaning up against the wall next to Geralt with his hip cocked out to the side. He’s wearing all red— the color bringing out the blue of his eyes and the flush of his skin. The sight makes something hot light up in Geralt’s blood.

“Hmm,” Geralt squints up at him, wondering what the sneaky bard is up to.

“So, my big, handsome witcher,” Jaskier says, “what brings you to this humble little town?”

Geralt tilts his head. Jaskier knows why they’re here. There’s a contract out on a couple water hags…did something happen to Jaskier’s memory? Suspicion floods him. Has he been poisoned? Geralt’s about to ask what he’s been drinking when Jaskier rolls his eyes and plops down onto the bench next to Geralt.

“Ugh, just play along, why don’t you?”

“Play along?”

The bard leans an elbow against the table and braces a palm against his flushed cheek. Geralt take a large gulp of his drink.

“Look, those two men I was talking to? They bet me 50 oren each that I couldn’t seduce you.”

Geralt nearly chokes on his beer, swallowing hard and taking a large bite of bread to distract himself.

“Ridiculous isn’t it? I already seduced you a long time ago.”

Before Geralt can voice his objection, Jaskier plows on.

“Anyway, I said ‘okay, I’ll take that bet,’ and now I’m here, staring longingly up at you, hoping for a kiss.”

Entirely without his consent, Geralt’s eyes dart down to Jaskier’s alcohol puffy lips and Jaskier smiles broadly.

“My chances are looking good, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.”

“Verbose,” Jaskier notes, squirming on the seat, legs dropping open as he leans back against the wall. Geralt’s eyes drop to his thighs and drag up, taking in his unbuttoned doublet and the white, lace trimmed undershirt beneath. Geralt’s eyes catch and hold on the dark hair of his chest peaking out of the gaping v of his undershirt. Jaskier _knows_ how that gets to him, and he clenches his jaw, determined not to give in so easily.

“What’s my incentive for going along with this bet,” Geralt asks, looking away to try and gain some control over himself. Jaskier’s so close, and he smells so inviting, and he’s asking for a kiss—

“Well, we’ll get a decent room in the next town with that money. And a nice meal as well.”

“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledges. It’s a compelling argument.

Jaskier’s hand slides down under the table, soft touch running along the inside of his thigh, getting dangerously close to his very, very interested dick. Geralt grips the mug of beer tight, bringing it to his lips and drinking to cover his reaction.

“And I’ll take you in my mouth, later,” Jaskier whispers into his ear, voice eager and low, “kiss along your length, beg you to fuck my throat. You’ll give me what I want, won’t you, darling?“

Geralt does choke this time, slamming the beer down on the rickety wood tabletop. Jaskier’s laugh is cut short as Geralt grips his wrist, removing the bard’s sneaky hand from his thigh.

“Get on with it, then,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier slides into Geralt’s lap with one smooth movement, straddling his hips and sitting against Geralt’s thighs. He pauses to carefully observe Geralt’s face— a habit that makes Geralt distinctly uncomfortable, though he can’t complain too much because he frequently stares at Jaskier as well. But he tells himself that that's different, Jaskier is beautiful, how could he _not_ stare—

“Well, seduce me, bard,” Geralt says, hands sliding up Jaskier’s thighs. Jaskier shifts in his lap and wraps his arms around Geralt’s armored shoulders, leaning in and pressing hot lips to Geralt’s mouth.

Geralt immediately slides his hands up to grip at Jaskier’s lower back, clenching at the ruby fabric and pulling him close, sliding his tongue along Jaskier’s beer and salt lips. He lets out a pleased hum as Jaskier submits, letting his mouth fall open, sighing happily against Geralt’s tongue.

Based on the sudden hush in the tavern, they’re garnering a bit of an audience. While Jaskier doesn’t mind that kind of attention, Geralt would much rather be in the privacy of their own rooms for this.

Geralt nips at Jaskier’s bottom lip as he pulls away, watching Jaskier slowly blink his eyes open.

“You’re really good at that,” Jaskier says, sounding much more inebriated than he did a moment ago. His pupils are huge in the tavern lighting, cheeks pink and lips red and swollen. Geralt is swamped in the smell of his arousal and the sound of his arousal-elevated heart rate—

He’s going to end up in an uncomfortable situation if they don’t move this soon, so he leans forward and presses a biting kiss to Jaskier’s neck.

“Go collect your money so we can take this somewhere more private,” Geralt growls into his ear. Jaskier shivers and squirms in his lap, running a hand along his jawline, thumb catching at the hair of his short beard.

When he doesn’t immediately move, Geralt slides his hands down and squeezes Jaskier’s ass, making the bard jerk in his grip and scramble off his lap.

“Hurry,” Geralt says, watching the bard swagger over to the two gobsmacked townspeople. Geralt can hear their conversation from the door as he breathes in the cleansing, cool night air.

“We didn’t think you’d actually…” one of the men says, looking to his companion for back up. But the other man just pulls out his coin purse, sighing heavily as he counts out the money.

“Fine,” the first man grumbles, reluctantly sliding his money across the table as well. Jaskier collects his winnings, smile obvious in his voice when he speaks.

“Thank you gentlemen. Have a pleasant evening. I know I will,” Jaskier says in parting, and Geralt can almost _hear_ the wink he gives them as he turns to join Geralt at the tavern entrance.

Geralt rolls his eyes, but he can’t disagree— it _is_ going to be a pleasant evening.


	5. unexpected carriage rides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5. Jaskier is kidnapped, and Geralt feels a bit possessive.

Jaskier jolts awake, sucking in a sharp breath and gagging against the cloth in his mouth. Sharp, throbbing pain radiates from the base of his skull and he grimaces, letting out a low moan.

He must be spending too much time around Geralt, because his first thought is: _fuck._

He glances around frantically, trying to piece everything together. He must be in a carriage— the floor is shifting and jerking beneath him to the sound of hooves on a muddy path. Heavy rain pummels the wooden roof, seeping cold through the thin wooden walls.

His wrists are bound with rough sisal rope in front of him, but hey, at least there’s a blanket beneath him.

How considerate.

“You aren’t going anywhere, boy. May as well not try anything,” a nasally voice sneers above him. Jaskier twists (wincing as his head pounds) to see a burly man crouched at the front of the carriage. Muscles bulge beneath his clothes and Jaskier immediately knows he would lose a physical fight with this man. His clothes look similar to the locals where they acquired their most recent contract— thin and rough, all in murky yellows and washed out reds.

Jaskier shifts through his memories, trying to figure out how he got into this predicament. They were camping out in the densely forested area just outside a small village near Toussaint. Geralt had gone to take down a wraith haunting a local cemetery and Jaskier had stayed behind, tending the fire. He was fussing over some lyrics for a song that had been bothering him for hours when there was a sudden rustling behind him— the only warning he had before pain exploded behind his head and darkness consumed him.

He’d been kidnapped. Well, isn’t that just peachy?

Glancing one more time at the breadth of his kidnappers shoulders, he makes a decision to try and talk his way out of this situation.

He starts talking behind the gag, words garbled and unintelligible. When Jaskier doesn’t let up, the kidnapper gives up his façade of nonchalance and tugs the cloth away harshly.

“Finally,” Jaskier complains, smacking his lips to try and get the taste of worn fabric out of his mouth.

“Do you know how uncomfortable it is to have cloth in your mouth?”

“Would you shut up,” the man snaps.

“No,” Jaskier snarks back, reclining onto the scratchy blanket and staring up at the carriage roof. A spindly spider clutches at its web, frightened by the rocking motion of the carriage.

“Are you aware of how monumentally stupid this was? Kidnapping me,” Jaskier asks, watching the spider sway with the carriage, little legs trying to maintain a sense of stability.

“Looks like a good deal from where I’m standing,” the man says, and Jaskier doesn’t have to look to know the man is looking him up and down.

“You’ll fetch us a pretty price in the market. A lot of lonely men would pay for your company for a night.”

Icy disgust slides up Jaskier’s spine, but he clears his throat and braves his way through.

“I don’t think you understand,” he twists to make eye contact with the sleazy man.

“Do you know who I’m traveling with?”

The man gives him a dumb, blank look and Jaskier makes a show of rolling his eyes.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. What’s your name, then?”

“Leave it,” the man grumbles.

“Well then, I’ll just call you ‘Fred,’ shall I? You seem a bit like a Fred—“

“Archie,” the kidnapper says, and Jaskier allows himself a second of pride for getting the information out of this stranger.

“Okay, see? That wasn’t so bad. Now, Archie—“

_Bang!_

The sudden resounding thud on the carriage roof makes Jaskier flinch even as the carriage jolts to the side. Archie the sleazebag falls back onto the wooden bench seat, the spider curls its little legs close, and Jaskier yells:

“Geralt! I’m in here!”

Archie leaps towards him— meaty, swollen hand gripping one of his sleeves and pressing a thin knife to his throat.

“Quiet, you, or I’ll cut your throat wide—“ he hisses into Jaskier’s ear, breath sour against his face.

There’s a shocked yelp from the rider— the horses jolt to a stop, forcing the knife to press into the flesh of Jaskier’s throat, forcing him to tilt his head back.

There’s only the sound of rain on the carriage roof for long, tense moments.

The back door rips open, nearly pulled off its rickety old hinges, and Jaskier’s heart leaps at the sight of Geralt.

He looks genuinely frightening— spattered with mud and blood, black armor spiked with silver, hair all over and dripping under the torrent of rain. His amber eyes glitter in the moonlight, feral and enraged, slit pupils wide and unblinking. Judging by the sudden smell of sweat pouring off the kidnapper, Archie has fully realized his mistake.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, heart pounding, reaching his bound hands out. He’s so ridiculously relieved to see the witcher—

A rough hand tangles in his hair and tugs his head back. Jaskier lets out a startled sound in surprise—the cold blade presses against his throat, shaking enough to nick him. Jaskier sucks in a breath at the sharp, hot sting of metal and something warm and wet slides down his throat. Geralt eyes track the blood, and Jaskier is forcibly reminded that Geralt can _smell_ blood for months after it’s been spilled, even when it’s been cleaned up and dried—

“I’m not gonna lie, Archie, you better let me go,“ Jaskier mumbles, seeing the rage building in Geralt’s gaze—

“Witcher. Back off, or I’ll gut him,” Archie demands stupidly.

“You know, threats and witchers generally don’t mix well—“ Jaskier tries, forcing his voice into some semblance of normalcy.

“Back off,” Archie yells at Geralt, ignoring Jaskier’s cautioning and pressing the shaking knife harder against his throat.

Jaskier wonders, detachedly, how much more pressure is required before his skin will start to split beneath the blade.

“Move,” Archie yelps when Geralt doesn’t respond, and Jaskier can’t help the whine that escapes him when the tip of Archie’s knife presses deeper into his skin.

The noise spurs Geralt into action and he takes several steps back, unwavering gaze never leaving the two men tangled in a heap in the carriage.

Geralt tilts his head like a large, curious cat as Archie shuffles Jaskier to the back of the carriage. Jaskier slides his feet to the ground when Archie prompts him, boots hitting the muddy road with a gross squelching sound. He wobbles as his head swims, blinking rapidly at the reminder of his head injury.

Geralt’s gaze locks on Jaskier at the wobbly movement, assessing, but Archie is right behind Jaskier, holding him close with a sweaty hand twisted in his doublet. It’s going to absolutely ruin the fabric, but Jaskier thinks bringing that up right now may be a bad idea.

“Alright. I’m gonna go over there, nice and easy, and get on one of those horses, and we’ll go our separate ways,” Archie bargains, bravado betrayed by the shaking on his hand against Jaskier’s chest.

Geralt just watches them, unblinking, waiting for the perfect moment to strike—

Archie the incompetent kidnapper starts to shuffle them around the carriage. Archie’s hot breath makes him flinch his face away, hating the feel of the man at his back.

Walking backwards towards the horses, Jaskier has to blink rapidly as black spots appear in his vision. Gods his head _hurts._

Geralt follows— silent, stalking.

“Wait! You stop there—“ the kidnapper snarls. Geralt keeps coming and Jaskier stumbles again, head pounding in sharp pain, and the knife digs into his neck, piercing the skin.

Jaskier lets out a strangled yelp and Geralt freezes.

“I told you— don’t come any closer! I’ll cut him open, I swear it on the Gods.”

“If you do, it will be the last thing you ever do,” Geralt threatens with such conviction that Jaskier’s heart skips a beat. They come level with the horses, shifting and pawing at the wet path, whites of their eyes showing at the sight of the witcher stalking behind them—

Without warning, the kidnapper shoves Jaskier away, hard enough that Jaskier falls to his hands and knees, pain jolting up his restrained arms—

The air shifts and he hears a horrible crunching squelch behind him and Jaskier’s throat closes in horror. He looks up in time to see Geralt deftly pull his steel blade from the kidnapper’s neck, blood arching out and splattering everywhere. The body falls to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, landing like bricks in the mud. Archie’s glassy eyes stare at Jaskier through the rain, unseeing and vacant in death.

Jaskier gags, looking away and focusing very carefully on his breathing, staring down at the mud seeping along the space between his fingers.

No longer hunting, Geralt lets his footsteps squelch in the mud as he approaches Jaskier through the muck.

“Jaskier?”

“Gimme a moment,” Jaskier grits out, breathing carefully. Freezing rain pounds along his back, grounding in its shocking coldness. Once he feels the gorge settle back in his stomach, he stands, wobbling and leaning against the side of the carriage.

“Are you okay,” Geralt asks, and Jaskier hasn’t worked up the nerve to look at him quite yet, afraid that his fear will pour out of him the moment he sees those pretty, concerned amber eyes—

“Yeah, just…shaken. Didn’t expect to be kidnapped, you know?” He stares down at his bound hands, watching the rain start to wash away the mud.

Geralt steps closer, speaking quietly, as though calming a spooked horse.

“I’m going to cut those bindings off of you, okay?”

Geralt waits for Jaskier’s nod, and the witcher pulls off his thick gloves and, quick as a flash, pulls a blade out of his armor and slices through the rope. The restraints falls away and Jaskier can finally get air into his lungs, tension dropping from his shoulders. Geralt rubs the skin of Jaskier’s wrists with gentle fingers, encouraging blood flow back to his hands. Jaskier’s voice has abandoned him, so he just watches Geralt work, blinking rain out of his eyes and and cursing the tremble in his hands.

“You’re going to bruise,” Geralt says, and Jaskier finally, finally looks up. Geralt’s brow is furrowed, rain dripping through his hair, and his mouth is drawn tight, staring down at Jaskier’s wrists.

“’S okay,” Jaskier says, feeling tenderness flood him at Geralt’s careful attention.

“Will you look at me,” Jaskier asks.

Geralt blinks rapidly, but he manages eye contact.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, hoping his gratitude shows on his face.

A muscle tenses in Geralt’s jaw, but he manages a perfunctory nod.

“He hit you on the back of the head,” Geralt asks.

At Jaskier’s quizzical look, Geralt elaborates.

“You stumbled when you got out of the carriage. You balance is off. He hit you?”

“Yes,” Jaskier admits, and Geralt’s hands immediately start to sift through his hair. Normally he would be ecstatic about having the witcher’s hands in his hair, but his head pounds with pain, and Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath when he makes contact with the rising bruise. Geralt hums in apology and carefully slides his fingers over the injury.

“You may have a small concussion, and you’ll have a knot for a couple days, but it doesn’t seem too bad.”

“The next time you get hit over the head I’ll say the same thing,” Jaskier complains, but gives Geralt a smile to let him know he’s teasing.

Geralt’s mouth quirks up at the side, but his eyes track to Jaskier’s neck and he frowns hard.

“What?”

Geralt presses under Jaskier’s chin, tilting his head to get a better look at the knife wound. Jaskier had completely forgotten about it in the struggle, but now he can feel a sharp, burning pain and the slow slide of blood along his neck.

The vulnerability of his position isn’t lost on him, and he knows that perhaps he should be scared (judging by the corpses in the road, he should definitely be scared), but instead he feels a very different kind of jittery heat running along his veins.

“We should head into town and find a room for the night. Escape the rain, “ Geralt says, looking down at the two dead men laying in the middle of the road.

\---

After picking up their soaking items from their makeshift camp, they manage to find an inn near the very edge of the town. It’s tiny, and old, and Jaskier really thinks the owners only gave the two of them a room because they’re desperate for coin. Even Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to try and be charming. He doubts his normal routine would work anyway, given his rain soaked, pale appearance— not to mention the blood on his neck.

The room is small, but there’s a mattress in one corner, a fire in another, and most importantly it’s _dry._

Listening to the storm continue its siege on the world, Jaskier stands in the middle of the room and shivers.

“I’ve always liked the sound of rain on a wooden roof,” he admits quietly. Geralt doesn’t say anything as he drops their packs to the floor, but Jaskier knows he’s listening.

“It’s calming. It’s nice to be warm and sheltered while it’s cold out. Feels safe.”

 _Shit._ He didn’t means to say that last bit out loud. But Geralt just reaches for the front of Jaskier’s doublet and starts to undo the buttons.

“I can do that, you know,” Jaskeir pouts, but Geralt quirks an eyebrow at him.

“You’re cold and your hands are shaking. Let me.”

It’s moments like this in which he’s abruptly reminded that Geralt isn’t precisely human— they’re both drenched in rain, but Jaskier is the one shivering with cold while Geralt is steady as stone.

He gives in, letting Geralt remove his doublet, his pants, only complaining when he starts to take off his smallclothes.

“You’ll freeze,” Geralt says, and ignores Jaskier’s complaints as he continues to undress the bard. Once Jaskier is naked, Geralt graps a blanket left to warm by the fire and wraps it around Jaskier’s shoulders, guiding him to sit in front of the hearth. He sighs heavily as the heat starts to warm his skin.

Geralt pulls his satchel close and kneels in front of Jaskier. He cleans the shallow cut on Jaskier’s neck, eyes focused and hands light as feathers against Jaskier’s skin.

It’s weird to be on this end of the equation. Jaskier has tended to Geralt’s wounds many times, but this feels…intimate, and it makes Jaskier’s guts squirm. Geralt flushes the wound, then applies a salve that smells of tea tree and rosemary, fingers rubbing gently against his neck. Jaskier wonders what Geralt thinks of his racing pulse.

“It’s a shallow wound,” Geralt comments, twisting the lid back onto the jar of salve and placing it carefully back into his bag.

“It will heal quickly,” he says, tugging off his armor.

Geralt undresses quickly, and Jaskier averts his eyes, refusing to look no matter how much he wants to. He forces himself to stare into the flames, eyes unfocusing as his mind wanders.

The witcher hangs their soaking clothes by the fire to dry.

“We’ll head out at sunrise before the kidnappers can be found,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s mind immediately flashes up the image of Archie, dead in the road. He grimaces and pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, making a noncommittal sound.

Geralt’s eye track the movement.

“Are you okay,” He asks, voice hesitant.

“Yes,” Jaskier manages, knowing it’s a lie, and knowing Geralt can tell it’s a lie. Geralt picks up his satchel and moves to put it by the door.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, waiting, and Jaskier feels the words burst out of him.

“It’s just— can you believe the nerve of them? They were going to—“

His voice abandons him as quickly as it came, all the horror he refused to feel earlier coalescing in his guts, and Geralt’s eyes jerk back to meet his. Whatever he sees must be terrible, because he drops his satchel and hurries to Jaskier’s side. He looms over Jaskier, gripping his biceps, hands warm through the blanket.

“Never,” Geralt promises, voice growling and certain, “I won’t let that happen.”

The conviction in his voice is startling, and Jaskier finds himself shocked out of his fear, staring wide-eyed up at the witcher.

“I won’t let that happen,” he repeats with such conviction that Jaskier finds himself nodding immediately, residual fear dissipating like smoke in the face of Geralt’s assurance.

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath, biting his lip hard and chewing.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says his name like a demand, and Jaskier lets himself look up into Geralt’s piercing eyes.

“I won’t let anyone take you away from me.”

Jaskier blinks, surprised, and judging by the sudden look in Geralt’s eyes, he’s surprised as well. Jaskier shivers and Geralt’s eyes drop to his lips and jerk back up.

_Oh._

The puzzle pieces slot together easily in Jaskier’s mind. That certainly explains all of Geralt’s hesitant touches over the past months, the small smiles he would aim at Jaskier in softer moments, the grumbling teasing when he was irritated. It all makes sense suddenly, and Jaskier finds himself swaying, overwhelmed.

Geralt misinterprets the movement and steadies him with a firm hand on his arm, concern tensing his brow.

“Are you dizzy?”

“No,” Jaskier says, voice breathier than he’s like, “no, my head’s fine.”

“Are you feverish? I didn’t smell any poison on the blade—“

“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts, touched and really, really hoping he’s not misinterpreting the situation.

“I’m fine,” he says, and smiles.

Suspicion and concern war across Geralt’s face, but Jaskier takes a deep breath and decides: why not?

“Geralt. Would you kiss me?”

Amber eyes blink at him, shocked.

“Did you hear me,” Jaskier asks, confidence fading as the silence drags on. Sap pops in the fire.

“Yes,” Geralt says, mouth hanging open. It would be funny if Jaskier wasn’t so nervous. As the silence drags on, Jaskier starts to panic. ‘Yes’ as in ‘yes, Geralt heard him and is trying to find a way out of the situation?’ Or ‘yes’ as in ‘yes Geralt will kiss him?’ It’s seeming more and more like the first option as time drags on and shit, he shouldn’t have asked. Of course Geralt doesn’t want—

“Oh. Okay. Well, I’m…I didn’t mean to—“

“No,” Geralt growls, stepping closer, “I mean, yes.”

Geralt's mouth twists in frustration and Jaskier fiddles with the hem of the blanket, tense around his shoulders. He debates trying to save face but Geralt is suddenly in his space, calloused hand tilting his chin up and then Geralt’s kissing him.

He kisses like a starving man, humming against Jaskier’s lips and devouring the bard’s surprised yelp. It’s consuming, like a wildfire, and Jaskier’s lungs burn with lack of oxygen.

He gasps in a breath and Geralt takes advantage, tongue sliding along Jaskier’s lips and claiming him, pressing _in, in, in_.

The cold of the rain is a distant memory and now Jaskier is burning hot, cheeks flushing at the sudden shift in mood.

Geralt pulls away and Jaskier whines.

“Are you okay,” Geralt asks.

“Yes, I’m fine. Why—“ Jaskier complains.

“Your heart’s beating very fast,” Geralt says, hand slipping down to press against his neck.

Jaskier’s heart jolts.

“Yes, well, you were kissing me.”

Geralt still looks concerned, eyes darting along his face, looking for clues—

“Geralt, if we’re not laying in that bed in the next ten seconds, I’m going to be very not okay, so would you please stop worrying—“

Jaskier’s rant is cut off as Geralt lifts him up and carries him to the small mattress as though he weighs nothing, which is frakly insulting seeing as how Jaskier is almost the same height as Geralt. Sure, he doesn’t have the same muscle mass, but he’s not _small_ —

Without warning, Geralt pulls the blanket away from his shoulders, laying Jaskier back and climbing up to loom over him. He presses his mouth to Jaskier’s neck, right under the knife wound, and bites softly, pressing hot lips along his neck, up to his jaw, and licking into his mouth.

Jaskier can feel himself getting hard quickly, blood flooding his groin alarmingly fast, and judging by the way Geralt fumbles to kneel between Jaskier’s thighs, he’s just as effected. Once he’s situated, Jaskier takes a moment to feel somewhat embarrassed by how wide he has to spread his legs to fit Geralt’s thighs between them. The witcher's thighs are unfairly tempting, and Jaskier really, really wants to sit in his lap at some point. Maybe he can convince the witcher to indulge him next time—?

Geralt lowers himself, pressing the length of his body against Jaskier and making a contented sound against Jaskier’s throat as he settles in. Jaskier gasps at the feel of Geralt’s erection heavy and hot against Jaskier’s hip. His hips jolt up and Geralt hums, leaning to capture Jaskier’s lips and rolling his hip down in a slow, aching rhythm.

All the franticness of their earlier kiss is gone— it’s as though now that Geralt has his prey pinned, his desperation has ceased. He takes his time, dragging their erections together with the roll of his hips, broad hands pinning Jaskier’s hips to the bed.

Jaskier sighs at the slow, rolling motions, hands sliding up Geralt’s broad back, smoothing his hands along the warm, scarred skin. It's luxurious, and between the drag of Geralt’s heavy erection on his skin and the consuming, hot kissed Geralt presses to his lips, Jaskier finds himself gasping for air.

“Wanted to claim you earlier,” Geralt confesses against his skin, taking both of their erections in hand. Jaskier moans at the feeling, embarrassed by the amount of pre-cum wetting the head of his erection. Geralt just hums in approval, rubbing the slick along both of them, squeezing, pulling, thrusting. Jaskier jolts, pleasure shocking along his spine as Geralt takes a moment to rub his thumb into the slit, teasing more pre-cum out of him.

“I wanted to take you, back in the forest,” Geralt says, breath hitching, resuming his thrusting.

“Wanted to fuck you, out there in the rain and mud. Tear your clothes off and have you, mark you up, so no one would dare try to take you from me again—“

Jaskier whines, high and animal, hips jerking in Geralt’s grasp. Geralt’s breathing changes and he thrusts hard, bringing them to the edge quickly, and Jaskier was going to spill much too fast—

“Geralt, I’m gonna—“

“Let me see,” Geralt demands, “give it to me.”

Jaskier yells, overwhelmed, and spills between them, vision whiting out. Geralt stops thrusting and pulls him through it, rubbing under the head of his erection and kissing along his jawline.

Jaskier is vaguely aware of Geralt kneeling up and tugging at himself, the sound of flesh obscene in the air—

“Jaskier—“

“Cum on me,” Jaskier says, needing to see it, to feel that possessive, animal claim—

“Geralt, do it, mark me up—“

Geralt obeys him with a low growl, spilling hot across Jaskier’s belly. He’s gorgeous, and Jaskier’s spent dick twitches at the sight as Geralt jerks himself through his orgasm. Jaskier tugs him down as soon as he's spent, brushing his disheveled hair off his face. Geralt just breaths hard, chest heaving in exertion.

\---

When they’ve both caught their breath, Geralt pulls back and looks over at him. He looks…sheepish, like he’s embarrassed, and Jaskier will _not_ have that.

He huffs, immediately leaning in to press their lips together. Geralt relaxes against him, returning the kiss with such aching tenderness that Jaskier feels a blush flood his cheeks.

“Are you okay,” Jaskier asks, nuzzling his face against Geralt’s neck.

“Yes. Should be asking you that,” Geralt says, shifting next to Jaskier.

Jaskier laughs.

“I am definitely more than okay.”

“I’m sorry about the…I don’t normally say things like that—“ Geralt starts, voice tense.

Jaskeir rolls to drape an arm around Geralt’s waist, snuggling close.

“I should certainly hope you don’t go around saying that type of thing to just anyone,” Jaskier smiles, hoping Geralt can see that Jaskier isn’t offended.

"I don't think I own you," Geralt growls in a rush, and Jaskier senses that there's a painful story to go with the words. But that's for another time. For now, he leans up to kiss the anxiety away from Geralt's face.

"I know," he says softly, smiling.

Geralt sighs with a self-deprecating smile and Jaskier runs his hand along Geralt’s belly, reveling in the muscle, the hair, the soft skin. Geralt’s hand slides down to run along Jaskier’s back, tracing along his spine.

They lays in the bed for a long while, listening to each other breathe and the steady tap of rain on the roof. Geralt presses his nose to Jaskier’s hair and breathes deeply, humming contentedly.

Petting along Geralt’s belly, Jaskier glances down and his heart skips.

“What,” Geralt asks, alert as always.

“So, I’ve heard rumors about witcher stamina, but I didn’t think…I thought those were just rumors,” he glances up at Geralt to find a smirk tugging at the witcher’s lips.

“I guess they’re not,” Jaskier says, voice embarrassingly breathy as heat starts to fill him.

Geralt's smirk turns into a full blown smile, wicked in the dark, and he rolls them over, devouring Jaskier’s laughter.


	6. ridden hard and put away wet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier occasionally gets an itch for a very specific thing...the question is: will Geralt give it to him?

Jaskier knows he can go a bit…over the top…when he’s performing. In his defense, it’s part of his job— letting people stare openly at him and respond to their flirtations with heavy-handed pleasure. And generally speaking he prefers for that voyeuristic attention to be reserved for when he’s singing for a crowd, but occasionally he feels an itch beneath his skin and there is only one thing that will satisfy it.

He’s very aware that he should rein himself in— Geralt has never instigated any sort of public demonstration of their relationship, and Jaskier isn’t going to be the one to initiate anything that makes Geralt uncomfortable.

But Jaskier can’t seem to _help_ himself. The craving has been building under his skin for the past couple weeks, and it’s reaching a breaking point. He can tell because he’s starting to flirt a bit...voraciously. Geralt is very patient with him. His pretty gold eyes devour Jaskier’s teasing looks even as he grumbles at the bard’s antics, but as soon as they’re alone the shyness disappears and the witcher pins Jaskier to the nearest surface and _consumes_ him.

He’s pushing too much tonight— he can see it in the way Geralt’s eyes flash at him in the golden lantern light. The tavern is rowdy and loud— drunk voices raised to sing along with him, and he responds in kind with teases and pushes, winks and smiles.

The crowd is handsy as well, and a strapping red-headed man pushing well past drunk loudly propositions him in front of the gleeful crowd. Jaskier flatters him with kind remarks about how tempting the offer is, but carefully steers the man’s attention away by hinting that he’s not available that evening…but perhaps another night.

It’s all part of his role, to keep people happy and entertained, but he can practically feel Geralt’s hackles raising, and a quick glance in the witcher’s direction proves him right: Geralt’s scowl has reached a previously unseen level and the mug in his hands is well on its way to cracking in half.

Jaskier assumes that this will follow their normal routine and Jaskier will be ravished as soon as they’re away from prying eyes. Or Geralt will call him on his teasing and put him in his place in a very disappointing and non-fun way. He really hopes Geralt opts for the former.

Jaskier lets his shoulders drop as he steps into the small, semi-private enclosure behind the stage after his last song, leaning back against the wooden barricade separating the small space from the tavern’s hallway. It’s barely private, but his throat is giving signs that he needs to be done singing for the evening and he just needs a moment away from prying eyes to breathe and collect himself.

He pulls air deep into his lungs, trying to slow his heart rate. As the evening has progressed, Geralt’s gaze has shifted from amused to hungry to predatory. Jaskier has always been attracted to danger, and while Geralt isn’t a danger to _him_ , Geralt is _dangerous_. And it’s thrilling to have all that focus on him.

 _And he’s so, so gorgeous,_ Jaskier thinks, guts twisting with want at the memory of the witcher’s hot gaze.

A shadow falls across the doorway and a large, firm hand presses against his mouth. He flinches and twists, panic flooding him as he shoves at the attacker.

“It’s me,” Geralt’s voice murmurs in the warm air and relief floods Jaskier. He sags back against the wall and Geralt crowds against him, leaning close and blocking Jaskier’s view of the hallway.

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt. Why do you always have to sneak everywhere?”

“You’ve been teasing me all evening,” Geralt growls, hands gripping Jaskier’s biceps and holding him still against the thin wall. Jaskier’s breath hitches at the pressure, heat quickly pooling in his belly. Jaskier shifts, testing Geralt’s hold, but the witcher’s grip turns to steel.

“No—you’ve been teasing me for _weeks_ ,” Geralt corrects, and he nudges a leg between Jaskier’s knees, sliding Jaskier’s feet wide enough for him to fits his strong thigh right up against Jaskier’s groin.

“Oh,” Jaskier yelps, biting his lip hard as pleasure slides up his spine. Geralt presses his thigh up, sliding the bulk of his muscle along Jaskier’s dick, the pressure making Jaskier twitch in his pants as blood rushes south.

Geralt hums at Jaskier’s reaction and presses his teeth against Jaskier’s neck, pinching the skin with his teeth.

Jaskier whines at the pleasure-pain, squirming against Geralt’s thigh. They’re of a similar height, but Gerald’s muscle makes him seem so much larger, and Jaskier abruptly feels small and obscene, pinned in place with his legs spread wide against the witcher’s thigh.

Are they really doing this? Jaskier’s heart pounds hard, breath stuttering as his eyes shivers between Geralt’s hungry gaze and the wide open hallway behind Geralt’s broad shoulders.

Geralt grip slides to Jaskier’s wrists and he pins Jaskier’s hands up above his head. He presses his thigh against Jaskier’s now very interested erection and squeezes his wrists against the rough wood wall.

“I know what you want,” Geralt whispers, leaning down to bite at the hinge of Jaskier’s jaw.

“And you’ll get it like this, here, where anyone could walk by and see.”

“Geralt—“

Geralt presses their lips together, demanding, and bites at Jaskier’s lips.

“Ride me, Jaskier.”

Air leaves Jaskier’s lungs and his hips jolt against Geralt’s thigh. Mortified, he moans behind clenched teeth, but Geralt just hums against him, tongue pressing against Jaskier’s lips and thigh shifting to encourage Jaskier’s movements.

Jaskier gives in, as always, rolling his hips against Geralt’s leg, tugging at his wrists and shivering as heat builds in him. It’s not long before he feels liquid collecting at the head of his erection, pulling at the fabric and dampening the front of his pants. Geralt takes a deep breath, one hand coming down to press the bard’s hips back just enough to watch him writhe against Geralt’s thigh.

“You smell good like this,” Geralt confesses, eyelashes brushing against Jaskier’s neck as he watches Jaskier’s hips. “You’re close. I can always smell when you’re close.”

Jaskier gasps, heart pounding hard. He feels an embarrassing amount of pre-cum slide out of him with Geralt’s words, and the witcher’s pupils expand to pools of black in response.

“Come on, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, “ride me properly. I know you know how.”

Geralt drops his other hand to grip Jaskier’s hips, pulling him into a harsh rhythm. Jaskier tangles his fingers in Geralt’s loose black shirt, completely lost and under Geralt’s control as he rolls his hips against Geralt’s hips.

He spills abruptly, feeling the heat spread from his hips, and Geralt moans in sympathy, kissing him hard, teeth clacking.

The world spins and Geralt presses him belly first against the wood wall.

“Geralt,” Jaskier yelps, hands bracing against the wall, feeling it bend beneath their weight. He can hear voices on the other side of the wood, laughter and drunken banter from the crowd filtering into their small enclove.

“Shh,” Geralt hushes, reaching down to untie the laces of Jaskier’s pants.

“Geralt, we can’t‚” Jaskier hisses, blush reaching combustible levels and he squirms against Geralt’s hands. It’s one thing to spill in his own pants against Geralt’s thigh, it’s an entire other thing to—

“Keep still if you don’t want to be found out,” Geralt murmurs into his ear, pressing burning kisses along Jaskier’s neck as his fingers continue their quest to untie the high waisted pants.

Jaskier has no idea what to do. He’s ridiculously turned on despite his release— and he really, really, wants this… but what if…?

Geralt’s fingers pause and his hands move to grip his hips, reassuring and steady.

“Are you okay,” he asks, and a quiet laugh tugs from Jaskier’s throat. That’s his Witcher— always looking out for him.

“I’m alright,” Jaskier whispers, voice choked and fingers trembling against the wall.

“Your heart is…” Geralt says, hands smoothing along Jaskier’s hips to try and calm him.

“Yes, that’s because your planning on fulfilling one of my carefully guarded fantasies by fucking me in public,” Jaskier hisses, “now would you please hurry up?”

Geralt hums against his neck and goes back to tugging the laces free, fingers slightly more frantic than before. Jaskier braces his elbows against the wall and takes deep, cleansing breathes, shivering at the warm air that hits his bare skin when Geralt tugs his pants down of his hips.

Geralt hastily undoes the laces of his own pants, and when he presses up against Jaksier’s back he can feel that Geralt hasn’t even bothered to put his pants down— just undid the laces and pulled his erection free, pressing up hot and thick against Jaskier’s lower back. Jaskier’s spent dick twitches in interest and he bites his tongue to keep the moan in.

Geralt’s hands leave him, but before he can protest he hears Geralt fumbling with a familiar sounding glass vial from his pocket, and Jaskier just waits, impatient, while Geralt slicks up his fingers and huffs a breath as he readies himself.

Slippery fingers slick down his lower back and press into him abruptly. Jaskier bites the meat of his own forearm, sucking in a sharp breath.

Geralt stretches him quickly, perfunctorily, and Jaskier feels a thrill at having pushed the witcher to such an extent. He should probably feel ashamed, but instead he feels a hot flood of excitement rush through him, and he spread his legs as much as he can with his pants restricting his thighs, pressing back against Geralt’s chest.

Geralt checks in with him once more before taking himself in hand and pressing slowly into Jaskier. Jaskier tries to press back against him, to hurry him up, but Geralt’s superior strength holds him still and steady as the witcher sets his own pace. Once he’s fully inside, Geralt stills to let Jaskier adjust to the size of him. He presses kisses to Jaskier’s neck, chest pressing against Jaskier’s back with his slow, even breaths. It’s a routine that Geralt has used before— slowing his own breathing, calming himself to make Jaskier’s body respond in kind. And sure enough his muscles relax, shivering as blood floods to his extremities.

It completely overwhelming, having the bulk of the Witcher behind him, barricading him in— the scent of his sweat in Jaskier’s lungs— the soft, silky touch of his hair as it falls across Jaskier’s neck. And despite it all— the crowd, the open enclove, the rowdy tavern patrons…he feels _safe_.

The witcher suddenly freezes against his back and presses a hand to Jaskier’s mouth. Jaksier squirms in surprise, but Geralt growls into his ear.

“Quiet,” Geralt says, chest shifting against Jaskier’s back. Fear jolts up Jaskier’s spine when he hears finally register what caused Geralt panic: slow, drunken steps moving down the hallway.

 _Fuck._ A mortified flush crawls up Jaskier chest and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying desperately to control his breathing. He’s sure Geralt can hear his heart rate rabbiting in his chest, and the witcher’s free hand slides across Jaskier’s belly, petting him like he does Roach when she’s spooked.

Whomever it is steps closer to their small hiding spot and Jaskier stops breathing, hands gripping Geralt’s against his stomach. But Geralt, the bastard, smiles against his neck and rolls his hips at the perfect angle.

Jaskier shakes with the effort to remain quiet, pressing his forehead into the wall as pleasure shoots through him.

The drunken footsteps get closer and closer, but Geralt keeps pressing into him and pulling back, the drag of him exquisite torture, and the drunkard will see them soon—

“It’s that man who propositioned you earlier,” Geralt says, so quiet that Jaskier isn’t sure he’s heard him properly. When the words register he squirms, trying to shift away from Geralt. But the witcher isn’t having it, holding him close and continuing his slow, aching movements.

“You’re not available this evening— or any other evening— for anyone but me,” Geralt demands, recalling the man’s words.

Jaskier knows Geralt will be embarrassed about the possessiveness later, but right now he revels in it— loving the validation of Geralt’s feelings, so rarely expressed—

“Should we let him find us? Do you think he’d get off to the sight of you on my dick?”

Jaskier can’t risk making any noise, so he shakes his head and bites his lips, squeezing his eyes shut.

The footsteps get closer, stumbling, and just when the footsteps reach the edge of their small space, someone calls for the drunkard, demanding he come pay his tab.

The man move away and Jaskier breathes deeply, reaching back and pinching Geralt’s thigh.

The witcher laughs low in his throat and jerks his hips hard, picking up the pace as he gets closer to his climax. Jaskier sags back against the witcher’s chest, letting him hold the bard upright.

“I know you’re tired, but you’ll still sing for me, right, my songbird?”

Jaskier bites his lip, embarrassed even as more clear fluid spills from his erection. Geralt sighs contentedly against his neck, reaching down to tug at Jaskier’s erection. He’s hot and oversensitive, and the touch is wonderful and terrible at the same time. Despite that, he can’t help but squirm and twitch with the touch.

“Only for me. Sing,” Geralt commands, rolling his hips and rubbing his fingers into the dripping head of Jaskier’s erection. Jaskier can’t stop himself and he finally lets out a low moan, the sound loud in the enclove and torn from his throat.

Geralt growls hard, hips jerking and stilling against him, the heat of his release making Jaskier whine.

Jaskier thinks he may pass out— coming twice in such a short amount of time— but Geralt holds him up and waits, letting them both ride the high for as long as possible. Eventually he pulls away, humming an apology as Jaskier grimaces. He carefully turns Jaskier around and tugs his pants up, retying the laces and pressing soft kisses against Jaskier’s swollen lips, along his cheek, up his temple. Jaskier lets him, fingers pressing into Geralt’s belly, up under his shirt, dragging his nails through Geralt’s chest hair the way he knows the witcher secretly loves.

“The next time you want to do this, just tell me,” Geralt requests, pressing his face against Jaskier’s neck and breathing in his scent. Jaskier nods, at a loss for words.

How did he get so lucky?

“Maybe next time I’ll let someone catch us,” Geralt says, throwing a smirk over his shoulder before disappearing into the hallway.

Jaskier blinks after him for a long moment before letting his head thump back against the wall and laughing.


	7. 5 times Geralt learned something about Jaskier's body, and 1 time Jaskier learned something about Geralt's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 + 1
> 
> Geralt learns things about Jaskier's body as they get closer. Little does he know that Jaskier has learned things about Geralt's body as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hastily written, but I hope it's enjoyable anyway. :)  
> I just had to get the idea out of my head.

1\. 

He first notices it several months into their association. The bard was covered in muck from the kikimore’s swampy hiding place, struggling to pull his ridiculously frilly doublet off. After listening to the bard’s struggling whines for a while, Geralt couldn’t help the soft snort that punched out of him.

“Geralt! Are you laughing at me? Was that a laugh,” Jaskier pouts, arms restrained behind him as the doublet tangles around his biceps. Geralt bites his tongue hard, giving a noncommittal hum by way of response.

“That was a laugh! You’re making fun of my suffering. How dare you? What a brute!”

Jaskier twists and pulls at the wet material, struggling again before turning to Geralt with wide, bemoaning eyes.

“This is it. This is the end of me. Bound and trapped by my own clothing— betrayed by embroidery—“

Geralt rolls his eyes hard, stepping close to the bard and reaching out hesitant hands.

“Let me,” he asks, knowing how humans dislike his touch.

But Jaskier just nods mournfully, blush coloring the skin above his collarbone where the material has tugged away. Geralt carefully looks away from the exposed skin and starts trying to inch the doublet off of his arms. It’s made twice as difficult by the soft undershirt beneath the doublet— the doublet is glued to the undershirt with muck, and Geralt really tries not to touch Jaskier’s skin—

But Jaskier twists at exactly the wrong moment and Geralt’s fingers brush along Jaskier’s side where the material has bunched up.

Jaskier gasps and flinches. Ice floods Geralt’s ribs and he steps back, dropping his hands into fists at his sides.

Jaskier’s reaction hurts more than usual… maybe because the bard had seemed so unafraid of him up until this point?

But Jaskier just looks at him, expectant.

“Well, are you going to help or not?”

Geralt furrows his brow, thinking maybe he misread the situation, and reaches for the bard again. Gripping one of the bunched sleeves, he tugs softly.

The fabric starts to slide, coming away, and Jaskier slips in mud as he tries to slide his arm out of the cloth. Geralt reaches for him again, barely touching his ribcage, and Jaskier whines, twisting away.

Geralt can’t help the growl that pulls from his throat and he turns, stalking away.

But again Jaskier just looks at him with bright, confused eyes.

“I’m not trying to touch you,” Geralt complains, showing his teeth, “but I can’t help it when you’re twisting around so much.”

“I don’t mind that—“

“You flinched. Twice,”

Geralt hates how petulant, how _hurt_ , he sounds—

“Oh! Oh no! I’m sorry Geralt, it’s not you—“

Jaskier twists the sopping fabric between his hands, trying to tug the other sleeve away from his arm, cheeks turning red. Geralt has no idea how this could possibly _not_ be about him—

“I’m just…ticklish,” Jaskier admits, suddenly finding the forest floor infinitely fascinating as he continues to struggle with the other side of the doublet.

“Ticklish,” Geralt repeats, baffled.

“You know, this grass has a kind of purplish tinge to it. I hadn’t noticed before—“

Geralt rolls his eyes, this time at himself, and steps forward, pulling Jaskier’s doublet again. This time the fabric comes free, mud squelching in his hands.

“Oh thank the Gods, I’m free. Thank you Geralt, for your assistance— hey!”

Geralt smiles, pleased by the way Jaskier yelps and tremors when he runs a hand along the ticklish side.

2.

This is really, really bad.

Geralt falls to his knees, blood sliding down his right side in a constant stream, hot and thick when he reaches to press a hand against the open wound. He groans low in pain, sucking in bursts of air.

The giant centipede lays dead in front of him, dark blood oozing sluggishly from the wound to it’s chest cavity. He’ll have to collect the head for payment. Fuck.

Spots dance in front of his eyes, but he manages to stand and decapitates the creature with a harsh, painful slice of his silver blade.

The walk back to their camp is slow and Geralt loses time, unsure how long it takes him to make it back to their small fire. It’s dark out now, the sun long since set, and Jaskier will be _worried_. He always gets worried when Geralt is away longer than he predicts, and he fails spectacularly at hiding his anxiety when Geralt returns—babbling and checking him over like a mother hen.

But when he finally stumbles into their encampment, something very different happens: Jaskier goes waxy pale.

He doesn’t say anything, just grabs Geralt’s bag and brings it to him. Geralt drops the giant centipede head and falls to his knees, fingers fumbling and useless— his own fingers too slick with blood to open the satchel.

“What do you need,” Jaskier asks, pushing his hands away. There’s a tremble in his voice and Geralt can’t look at him.

“Golden vial— silver cap,” Geralt manages, pressing his hand more firmly into the wound, grimacing at the squelch of blood.

Jaskier finds the bottle quickly, uncapping it and watching with wide eyes as Geralt swallows the potion in one go.

“Red box. Brown potion.”

“There are two in here,” Jaskier says.

Geralt hones in on Jaskier’s heartbeat. It’s faster than normal. His heartbeat is always fast compared to Geralt’s, but it’s too fast now. Is he hurt? Geralt should ask—

“Geralt! Which brown potion,” Jaskier snaps, and Geralt blinks hard, feeling darkness start to cloud his vision.

“The lighter brown one,” Geralt says, shivering as the white raffard’s decoction spreads through him.

The world starts to spin as Jaskier hands him the vial. His finger slip on the cap, twisting uselessly, and Jaskier takes the potion and unstoppers it easily.

“Here,” he says, voice soft as he touches Geralt’s chin and presses the bottle to Geralt’s lips, tilting it back to let the syrupy mixture slide into the witcher’s mouth. He grimaces at the sour, earthy taste, but it starts to take effect immediately. The blood slows at his side and his lungs expand deeper.

“What else do you need,” Jaskier asks, and Geralt looks away from the sight of his own blood on Jaskier’s fingertips.

Geralt collapses onto his back, breath blowing harsh from his chest.

“Nothing else to do. Sleep.”

“What? Geralt—“

“I’ll heal,” he says, grimacing at the pain in his side.

“You’re bleeding—“ Jaskier says, strain heavy in his voice. He would reach out and touch the bard if his hands weren’t sticky red with his own blood.

“I’ll heal,” he repeats.

“You can’t be serious— Geralt? Geralt—“

But the world goes black.

When he wakes, he’s on a soft mattress and there’s a wooden roof over his head.

He flinches upright, huffing out a breath at the residual pain in his side. Clean bandages wrap around his torso and the blood and dirt have been washed from his body.

He immediately starts searching for his swords, but the heavy smell of Jaskier registers and he pauses. Sure enough a quick glance around the small room shows the bard asleep at a small wood desk, head pillowed on his arms.

“Jaskier,” he mumbles. No response.

“Jaskier,” he tries, louder, and this time Jaskier bolts upright. The frantic look in his eyes calms when he sees Geralt sitting upright on the mattress.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Jaskier smoothes a hand through his ruffled hair, straightening his doublet.

“Where are we,” Geralt asks, shifting to the side of the bed and placing his feet on the floor.

“Well, my dear witcher, we are at the lovely, quaint inn called The Spiral Staircase in a town that is not worth remembering the name of.”

“And how did we get here,” Geralt asks. He doesn’t like that he can’t remember.

“When you passed out so dramatically, I took it upon myself to find us lodgings for you to recover in. The owner was very anxious to help a monster slayer, let me tell you,” Jaskier preens, “especially when he saw the giant monster head attached to Roach’s saddle.”

Jaskier stands, wincing as he walks over to the chair by the bed.

“You’re hurt,” Geralt asks, hackles raising.

“Yes, my dear. You do weigh quite a lot, you know.”

Geralt’s brain stalls.

“You…carried me,” he asks, blinking up at the bard.

“Yes of course. How do you think you got here?”

Something weird and hot blooms in Geralt’s belly as he listens to Jaskier recount how he packed up their belongings on Roach’s saddle and simultaneously carried Geralt and lead Roach to the nearest town.

He knew that Jaskier wasn’t weak— he couldn’t be to traipse around the world with a witcher— but Geralt didn’t know he was _that_ strong. Jaskier is almost the same height as Geralt, but he’s fairly slender (the illusion of softness helped enormously by the cut of his clothes). The knowledge that this bard picked him up and _carried_ him—

“Are you blushing,” Jaskier asks suddenly, leaning close.

“No,” he growls, reaching down to inspect the bandages around his side.

“Leave those,” Jaskier says, smacking his hands away. Geralt grumbles but does as he says, highly aware of the tired, shimmering look in Jaskier’s eyes.

“You carried me,” he repeats, feeling quite dumb. Jaskier just gives him a smile, leaning back in his chair.

“Yes I did, and I won’t ever let you forget it. Though I am quite sore you know. I’ll have to get a massage before we leave town—“

“Hmm.” Geralt responds, very firmly not thinking about massaging Jaskier’s aching muscles.

3.

Jaskier is very handsome. Geralt is very aware of this, and he thinks he’s intimately aware of Jaskier’s physical traits. They spend so much time together that it’s impossible not to take in every detail.

Which is why he’s surprised to find something new.

“Geraaaalt,” Jaskier whines, blinking rapidly and trying to move away from Geralt’s hands.

“Stop whining,” Geralt snaps, “If I don’t get this wyvern venom out of you eyes, your vision could be damaged permanently.”

Jaskier’s mouth twists in pain but he stops trying to escape, crossing his arms over his chest. Geralt presses his fingers into Jaskier’s chin, tilting his head up. Heat flares to life in his belly at how easily Jaskier allows Geralt to move him, but Geralt shoves quickly the thought aside.

“When I tell you to, open your eyes. I’ll rinse your eyes out with water,” Geralt says, trying to make his voice soft. It doesn’t work, but he tries nonetheless.

Geralt frowns, skin crawling at the sight of hot, thick tears streaming down Jaskier’s cheeks as his eyes try to dispel the venom.

“Jaskier,” he demands, pinching at the bard’s chin.

“Yes, okay,” he mumbles, brows furrowed.

“Okay. In three, two, one—“

Jaskier whines in pain as the water runs across his open eyes, but Geralt holds Jaskier's chin so he can't escape and doesn’t let up, pouring water across his face. Once the skein is empty he has Jaskier close his eyes as Geralt runs to collect more water from the nearby stream.

He’s certain the first skein did the trick, but he won’t risk it. He won’t risk Jaskier.

“What compelled you to approach the wyvern nest in the first place,” Geralt asks, tapping at Jaskier’s chin and pouring the water across his eyes again, pleased when Jaskier blinks his eyes open and doesn't try to get away this time.

“They were _babies_ ,” Jaskier complains once the water runs out. “Fluffy and small and crying— how was I to know their mother was nearby and didn’t appreciate my complimentary words towards her children?”

“Let me see your eyes,” Geralt says framing Jaskier's face with his hands. Normally humans avoid his gaze. They don’t like the inhuman look of his amber irises. They like the slit pupils even less.

Jaskier has no such reservation. He looks up at Geralt easily, unafraid and beautiful. Geralt is momentarily stunned, not only by the simple acceptance in Jaskier’s gaze, but the ring of green near the center of the bard’s irises.

He’s never been this close to the bard, and he assumed Jaskier’s eyes were all blue— but no. There’s definitely a thin ring of green as well. He feels off kilter, gut punched—

“What do you think,” Jaskier asks, voice soft. He blinks, lashes clumped and dark with water and tears.

_I think I’m in love with you._

“I think we got all the venom out,” Geralt says, letting go quickly and stepping away, shoulders hunched.

4.

As is common with humans, Jaskier's body is very sensitive. His skin burns easily, he shivers when the sun goes down, and he refuses to wear wool against his skin.

(“It _itches_ , Geralt,” he complained the one time Geralt suggested buying a wool jacket for the colder months.)

Knowing this about the bard, he shouldn’t be surprised to discover that certain parts of his body are sensitive in… _different_ ways.

They’re in Toussaint— walking through a crowded marketplace to try and find new boots to replace Jaskier's old, beat up ones. Geralt doesn’t like crowds at all, so he sticks close to his bard, trying to focus on him and only him. He still hears the occasional hissed curse, but he just focuses on Jaskier and keeps walking.

In a particularly crowded section between a strawberry stand and a vendor selling beaded bags, Geralt becomes overwhelmed— the sickly berry scent and the sound of bead clicking together and the bright glittering _things_ everywhere.

His voice leaves him and he reacts instinctively— pressing his fingers into the small of Jaskier’s back with the intention of guiding the bard towards a less crowded section with the pressure of his hand. Jaskier’s goes silent at the touch and his heart kicks up a notch. Geralt, being so focused on Jaskier, notices immediately. He sees nothing near them that would cause such a sudden reaction, but when he takes a careful breath—

_Oh._

He tests his theory by pressing more firmly against Jaskier’s back, right against the base of his spine, and is rewarded with more of the heady, delicious arousal scent. The overwhelm evaporates and Geralt steps closer to Jaskier’s back, looming over his shoulder and rubbing his fingers along Jaskier’s spine as the bard’s breathing picks up.

“We can get your boots later,” Geralt suggests. Jaskier doesn’t resist as Geralt guides him back to their room at the edge of town, hand sneaking up to rub against Jaskier’s soft, heated skin.

By the time they make it to the room, Jaskier’s legs are wobbling. As soon as the door closes Geralt pins him belly first to the wall. He tugs Jaskier’s doublet off, dropping to his knees and shoving the soft white undershirt up just enough to press a kiss to the base of Jaskier’s spine.

Jaskier whines and Geralt grins, rubbing his stubbly jawline against Jaskier’s skin, reveling in this new discovery. He reaches around Jaskier's hips and fings the laces of Jaskier's pants, tugging them apart.

“You’re very sensitive here,” Geralt says, biting against the skin beneath his mouth and sliding his hand into Jaskier's pants, fingers brushing the hot, damp head of Jaskier's erection. 

“Yes, I know,” Jaskier chokes, mortified even as he rolls his erection into Geralt's hand. “I don’t know _why_ , but it just…drives me insane—“

Geralt spends a very long time figuring out just how insane the erogenous zone can make Jaskier.

5.

Jaskier is passionate in everything he does— always moving, always talking, and always composing. It’s rare for him to go still and calm—even at night he shifts in his sleep, mumbles, burrows against Geralt.

The only way Geralt has found to quiet the bard is to exhaust him through sex. This arrangement works perfectly well for Geralt, and he indulges in this solution frequently.

He believes he knows Jaskier’s preferences very well— Jaskier tells him frequently and loudly what he wants when they sleep together so Geralt doesn’t have to guess. But again…Jaskier always surprises him with something new.

He’s plastered along Jaskier’s back, buried deep inside the bard after a long, frustrating day. Sweat slicks the space between them as Geralt rolls his hips into the bard, savoring the tight squeeze of his body and the familiar scent of his skin. Jaskier is pinned to the mattress on his belly with Geralt’s knees between his spread thighs.

(“I like when you hold me down,” a blushing Jaskier had confided early on in their…arrangement…and Geralt has taken any opportunity since to indulge him.)

“Geralt, harder—“ Jaskier pants, trying to press back against the witcher. He has no leverage, being pinned so thoroughly, but he _keeps moving_ , and Geralt wants him to relax and just stop— just let Geralt take care of him.

Jaskier shifts, tries to get up on his knees, and Geralt snaps. With a frustrated growl he leans down and bites the nape of Jaskier’s neck hard, teeth digging in. Jaskier gasps and Geralt has a moment of panic before something shocking happens—Jaskier goes completely calm. The bard’s muscles melt and he relaxes into the sheets, breath slowing and heart calming—

This is new. Heat flares in Geralt’s chest and he shifts his knees to get better leverage. Keeping his teeth firmly against Jaskier’s neck and his arms braced around Jaskier’s shoulders and chest, Geralt gives in and jerks his hips into Jaskier hard— the way the bard is always asking for— and reveling in the way Jaskier just _lets_ him.

It’s not long before Jaskier lets out a soft, sighing moan and spills against the sheets beneath him, pushing Geralt over the edge as well. He grinds his hips into the bard as he comes, breathing heavily between his teeth, still clenched against Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier doesn’t move, even as Geralt carefully releases his teeth and pulls out of him, moving to lay beside the bard. Concern mounts as Jaskier remains quiet and there’s going to be a _bruise_ on Jaskier’s neck—

Fuck, did he really hurt Jaskier?

“Jaskier,” he asks, smoothing a hand up Jaskier’s back, fingers light along the sweat slick skin.

Jaskier lets out a soft, tired inquisitive noise but doesn’t look up.

“Are you…Did I hurt you,” he asks. Jaskier turns his face to look at Geralt with one eye, smiling. Of all the times for Jaskier to go silent—

“No darling, that was perfect,” he says, voice buttery and content, and the anxiety slides away.

Geralt collapses next to him, pulling the bard to lay curled up against him, and Jaskier doesn’t move for the rest of the night.

+1.

Jaskier spends a lot of time kissing him. Any chance he gets, Jaskier presses them together, licks into his mouth, sucks at his tongue. It’s wonderful and terrible, and the freely given affection frequently leaves Geralt feeling shaky and unmoored.

This is one of those times. There’s a downpour of rain outside the tavern room they spent way too much coin on. They had collapsed onto the bed post-bath, limbs jelly-like and loose from the hot water, and Jaskier had immediately crawled on top of Geralt, pressing them together and peppering Geralt with kisses.

“You have very kissable lips,” Jaskier says, and heat floods Geralt’s cheeks.

He starts to shift away, moving to shift Jaskier off of him, but Jaskier won’t let him— wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, pinning his legs between Geralt’s thighs and laughing against his neck.

“It’s true, darling. Don’t tell me no one has said that before,” the bard leans back to peer down at him, but his smile fades at whatever he sees on Geralt’s face.

Geralt swallows, closing his eyes as Jaskier’s fingers brush against the red of his cheeks. Geralt feels a panic in his chest, much like last week when they unexpectedly ran into a bunch of drowners—

“I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I, darling,” Jaskier mourns, pressing kisses to Geralt’s jawline. He squirms, feeling both incredibly small and huge at the same time— like he wants to hear more but he also can’t stand it—

“Well, I’ll tell you every day— you have the most beautiful, kissable lips,” Jaskier whispers, pressing his lips against one of Geralt’s enflamed cheeks, his lips pressing feather light along Geralt's jaw, down to his mouth.

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries to protest, but Jaskier just presses their lips together, hushing him.

“You also have gorgeous eyes. I know you don’t like them, and I know they come from a dark place— but they’re yours and I think you’re beautiful,” Jaskier murmurs. Geralt frowns, looking away.

“Let me, darling,” Jaskier demands, sitting up and pinning Geralt’s shoulders to the bed. He could easily move Jaskier, but he finds that he doesn’t want to. So he relaxes into the bed and watches a smile tug at Jaskier’s lips.

“You always take such good care of me, and I always feel safe with you,” Jaskier whispers, rocking their hips together. Geralt feels himself hardening rapidly at Jaskier’s words, and the bard quickly reaches down to take both of them in hand, squeezing their erections together and tugging them to full hardness.

“You like to be told that you’re doing well when you fuck me, and my darling witcher I _love_ telling you just how well you fuck me.”

Geralt jolts in Jaskier’s grip, fluid drooling from the head of his erection, and Jaskier quickly smears their pre-cum together, smoothing the way for his hand.

“You don’t like it, but you’re possessive and quick to become jealous,” Jaskier says, eyes soaking up the hot blush creeping along Geralt’s chest, hand tugging and pressing, stopping to rub his fingers into copious fluid slipping from Geralt’s erection. He growls and reaches up, gripping Jaskier’s ass and squeezing. Jaskier rocks against him, sweat sliding down his belly.

“I have a theory, though, and maybe you can confirm this one for me,” Jaskier says, leaning down to press their chests together. He kisses Geralt again, lips puffy and swollen with arousal. Geralt hums, rolling his hips up and squeezing Jaskier’s bottom, grinding them together.

“I think you’d really like for me to fuck you sometime,” he confesses against Geralt’s jaw. Unexpected, boiling heat shoots through him and Geralt groans, spilling between them in hot bursts. Jaskier gasps above him and follows, mixing their spend between them with sharp jerks of his hips.

Jaskier collapses against him, breathing hard against Geralt’s neck.

Geralt’s stunned, completely unsure what to say. Luckily Jaskier understands and just lays against him, pressing kisses along his neck and jaw while they both recover.

It hadn’t occurred to him that, while Geralt has been learning about Jaskier’s body, Jaskier has been doing the same for him. And he truly _hadn’t_ thought of Jaskier being on top before, but…yes. He definitely, really, truly wants that.

Fuck.


	8. stitches and burning thighs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is injured, but that doesn't stop him from getting his bard into bed.

“Geralt, stop.”

Geralt’s hot hands disappear from Jaskier’s waist and the heat of him backs away, leaving cold in its place.

Jaskier’s shoulders drop and he turns around. Geralt is frowning at the flooring of their room for the evening, avoiding Jaskier’s gaze.

Hot pain bubbles up in Jaskier’s chest at the vulnerable sight and he sighs, reaching out for Geralt and touching his bare forearm when the witcher’s black shirt is rolled up to his elbows.

“I didn’t mean to snap, it’s just…” Jaskier trails off.

Geralt hums, fingers twitching by his sides.

“If you don’t want…” he starts, grimacing.

“No! It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just…you’re hurt,” Jaskier says, and his very helpful mind supplies him with too vivid memories of Geralt stumbling back to their camp three days previous, blood pouring from a nasty wound to his belly.

“I’m fine,” Geralt grumbles, fingers carefully reaching up to trace along the back of Jaskier’s biceps.

“I had to stitch you back together in the dark,” Jaskier says, voice shaking at the memory of Geralt’s soft, pained breathes as he pulled a needle through the witcher’s flesh.

“The stitches can come out tomorrow…and I have enhanced healing,” Geralt says, confusion thick in his voice.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Jaskier insists, stepping to press their chests together, hyperaware of the healing wound beneath Geralt’s shirt.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, clever hands sliding back to run along Jaskier’s back. Jaskier hasn’t been this close to Geralt since the injury, afraid of aggravating the wound, and he remembers why when his mind goes blank with pleasure, surrounded by the calm, strong warmth of his witcher.

“You won’t hurt me,” Geralt promises, voice rumbling along Jaskier’s ear as the witcher presses his nose against Jaskier’s hair, breathing in his scent. His hair, soft and pretty, flutters across Jaskier’s cheek. Shit. He also really wants to feel the witcher— wants that reassurance that Geralt _is_ actually okay…

Jaskier sighs, smiling and nodding in acquiescence, and Geralt guides him to the small bed.

Geralt kisses him eagerly, slotting their lips together and licking across his mouth until he grants the witcher access. Heat fills his chest as Geralt devours him, and he quckly becomes aware of the hot length Geralt presses against his hip.

“Only if I do all the work,” Jaskier demands, pulling back to glare up at Geralt. Geralt’s slit pupils are full and round with desire, piercing into him with predatory focus.

Geralt nods, stepping away to pull his clothes off. Jaskier follows suit, carefully placing his clothes on the room’s small dresser and giving Geralt an unimpressed look as the witcher throws his clothes to the ground.

The annoyance evaporates as he takes in the sight of Geralt standing naked and aroused in front of him. He automatically hones in on the wound, bisecting his torso from his left ribcage and down to the middle of his belly. The black stitches stand out against his pale skin, and Jaskier clenches his jaw.

“Lay on the bed,” Jaskier demands, voice husky and low. Geralt complies easily, watching Jaskier as the bard stands beside him. The wound _does_ look much better. The red flush has disappeared, and the skin is knit together with silver scarring between the stitches.

“Jaskier,” Geralt complains, shifting his hips on the mattress and drawing attention to the heavy erection lying against his hips.

Jaskier crawls up onto the bed, spreading his legs wide to sit across Geralt’s thick thighs. It’s a nice position. He’s used to having Geralt above him, but this view gives the bard a strange sense of control, and seeing Geralt spread out beneath him— broad chest shifting with his heated breath, white hair splayed out on the sheets…

“Oh, yes, this will do,” Jaskier says, hands bracing against Geralt’s strong hips as he settles more comfortably against the witcher’s thighs.

“Now, you just lay there, and don’t move,” Jaskier demands, reaching for the vial of oil by the bed. Geralt hums, watching him uncork the vial and spill shining oil across his own palm.

Jaskier drops the vial to the dresser and braces a palm against Geralt’s chest, staying far from the healing wound, and reaches back.

Geralt growls.

“I know, darling. I know you like to do this part, but let me, just this time,” Jaskier says, slipping his own fingers back behind his spread legs, quickly working the oil into himself. It’s obscene how wide his legs are spread to accommodate Geralt’s hips, but it’s a delightful kind of embarrassment that fills him, and he embraces it eagerly. It’s easy to do, given the way Geralt is watching him.

Perfunctory stretching accomplished, he brings his hand back around and, with a smirk, takes his own erection in hand and pulls, spreading the oil along his own length and reveling in the sparks of pleasure that shoot through him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growl-whines, chest rumbling beneath Jaskier’s palm.

“Did you want something, darling,” Jaskier teases, smiling down at the witcher.

Geralt frowns, hips shifting minutely beneath Jaskier’s thighs.

“Okay,” Jaskier soothes, re-coating his palm in oil and reaching down to slick Geralt’s erection. The muscles of Geralt’s belly tense hard with the struggle to remain still beneath Jaskier’s ministrations, and Jaskier takes a moment to revel in the sight. The hot erection in his hand leaks clear fluid, adding to the slick that Jaskier presses along the soft steel flesh. Jaskier rubs his thumb into the dripping slit and Geralt moans, whining his name again.

Patience gone, Jaskier leans forward, reaching behind himself to line Geralt up with his entrance.

Geralt watches with blown pupils, teeth gritting as Jaskier presses down. Jaskier’s thighs burn at the slow descent, struggling to relax enough to let Geralt slide into him.

It’s always a stretch at first, but Jaskier relaxes into it, and Geralt is always careful to wait for him. He manages to take Geralt all the way in without pausing, resting back to a full seat on Geralt’s hips. He takes a moment to breathe, sweat starting to slick along his chest with the strain.

He can tell that Geralt is struggling with the position. He likes to grip Jaskier when they’re fucking, hold onto the bard and leave biting kisses across Jaskier’s skin to mark his claim. But he can’t do that here, and he looks up at Jaskeir helplessly, fist clenched uselessly in the blankets.

“Good. Don’t move,” Jaskier reminds him, bracing both his hands against Geralt’s chest and swiveling his hips, relaxing back against the hot length inside him.

Geralt moans, breath heaving, and Jaskier can’t wait anymore. He uses his palms against Geralt’s chest to brace as he sits up, letting Geralt slide out almost completely out of him before rotating his hips back, letting out a moan at the feeling of Geralt pressing back into him.

Geralt’s eyes roll back into his head and his mouth drops open in pleasure with Jaskier’s slow, careful movements.

“There you are,” Jaskier rewards, petting his palms along Geralt’s chest, rubbing his thumbs across Geralt’s pink nipples. Geralt sucks in a breath, throwing his head to the side, white hair splaying out behind him.

“That’s it, darling. Just lay there and let me give you what you need,” Jaskier coaxes, high with the power Geralt has given him.

It takes him a while, but he figures out a good rhythm that has Geralt pressing against that spot inside him that makes his blood boil with every downward press of his hips. He’s sweating profusely now, and his thighs are going to _burn_ tomorrow—

Geralt’s hands sneak to Jaskier’s hips, fingers hot and eager against his pelvis, and Jaskier stills, grabbing Geralt’s wrists and pressing them to the mattress.

“Next time,” Jaskier promises, watching Geralt bite his lip hard. Next time he’ll let Geralt guide him—pull Jaskier down onto his erection, jack his hips up into the bard….

“For now, you don’t move,” Jaskier demands, awed as the witcher submits, tangling his hands back into the soft sheets and peering up at him with heated eyes.

Jaskier picks up the rhythm again, becoming more frantic as he feels his climax approach. His own erection— hot and swollen, leaking copiously— smacks against his own belly obscenely with his thrusting. Geralt’s eyes consume him, glowing yellow in the low light.

“Jaskier,” Geralt moans, mouth open as he sucks air into his lungs.

“Please,” he begs, helpless to do anything but lay still and let Jaskier use him. It’s too much, and Jaskier feels himself clench up, spilling hot across Geralt’s clenched belly.

Geralt snarls, hips jerking up once, hard, as the witcher throbs within him and spills. Jaskier grinds his hips down, squeezing against Geralt and Geralt gives in, reaching up to grips Jaskier’s hips and hold him still.

When Geralt manages to open his eyes again, Jaskier slowly pulls away, collapsing next to the witcher. His thighs already hurt from the strain, and he knows he’s in for a day of Geralt smirking and touching his hurting legs, gaze knowing and hot—

“Fuck,” Geralt says.

“What,” Jaskier asks, the fog of climax still heavy in his brain.

“Popped a stitch,” Geralt mumbles.

“Fuck,” Jaskier responds, moving to get up and look for Geralt’s bag. Geralt wraps an arm around his waist, faster than any human could have managed, and pulls the bard back onto the mattress. He curls around the bard, pressing his nose into the hinge of his jaw and taking in a deep breath.

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, “Stitches were coming out in the morning anyway.”

He presses his lips to Jaskier’s, settling heavy against the bard for sleep.

“Geralt, I should really take a look at that,” Jaskier says, trying to push the heavy witcher up. But Geralt smirks, not even opening his eyes, and leans more heavily against Jaskier.

“Geralt, that’s not fair, you know I can’t move you—“

“Exactly,” Geralt says, “now go to sleep, bard. Everything’s fine.”

Jaskier gives a token pinch against Geralt’s bicep, but quickly falls into unconsciousness, blanketed by his heavy, happy witcher.


	9. routines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has a routine with sex, but Jaskier changes everything.

Geralt has slept with many people. Usually he has to pay for it, but every once in a while someone will find him interesting and fall into bed with him for a night.

He knows the routine— the quick roll in bed, full of bites and pulling and nails digging into his back— the perfunctory release, then the awkward goodbyes.

When Jaskier first joins him on the Path, he thinks this is what Jaskier wants. It’s clear that the bard’s interests lay in more than just writing songs about the Path (Geralt carefully notes the lingering glances, the soft smiles, the smell of arousal that constantly wafts around Jaskier).

At first he thought that the bard always smelled of arousal, and that it had nothing to do with him. Jaskier is a young man, and young human men so frequently smell of arousal for no apparent reason. It’s just that the scent usually is not in response to his presence.

But he notices the warm, heady smell of Jaskier’s arousal dims and fades when they’re in crowds, or when someone particularly unappealing attempts to get him into bed.

Geralt finds himself wanting the smell back when it fades and he chastises himself sharply. He has no claim over the bard, nor his arousal. It’s foolish to indulge in such emotions.

As months pass it becomes draining to hold himself back— to deny himself something that the bard clearly wants him to _take_.

It starts to _hurt_.

He wants Jaskier. Yes, of course he wants to fall into bed with the handsome bard— to spread the smell of Jaskier’s arousal into Geralt’s skin and press his own scent deep under the bard’s skin in return.

But he also wants Jaskier to stay, and the one thing that Geralt has learned of the people he beds is that they never stay.

\---

The tenuous balance Geralt has on his desire collapses late in the autumn season, when they’ve finally managed to find a decent inn to escape the cooling weather. Jaskier is flirting outrageously with a man at the bar of a small tavern, and Geralt is carefully not looking their way.

Maybe he is imagining things, and Jaskier’s interest really isn’t with _him_ , but men in general—

“If you don’t put that boy out of his misery, he’s gonna end up in a nasty situation,” a voice interrupts his brooding.

Geralt glances up from where he was glaring daggers into his drink. There’s a young man leaning against his table, brown eyes boring into him under heavy brows.

Geralt tilts his head, lifting a brow in inquiry.

“The bard,” the man tilts his chin towards Jaskier. The man looks about Jaskier’s age, maybe a bit younger. It’s hard to tell with humans. But he’s young, and shifting uncertainly on his feet.

“He clearly wants you to go over there and sweep him off his feet.”

Geralt grimaces at the man’s words, grumbling and trying his best to look offputting.

“And judging by your supremely angry look, you want to do just that.”

“Leave off,” Geralt growls, irritated that he is so easily read by a stranger.

“Look, I don’t really care, but I know the man he’s speaking with,” the man continues, stepping closer to let someone pass behind him.

The young man’s scent wafts towards Geralt with his movement. Geralt’s shoulder blades tense and he looks up with fresh eyes.

The man’s eyes are scared. Tension squeezes at the corners of his eyes.

“What’s wrong,” Geralt can’t help but ask.

The man gives him a small smile and crosses his arms.

“Look. That guy is bad news. Just don’t let the bard fall into bed with him.”

Geralt’s hands clench, jerking his head up to look towards the bar.

Jaskier is laying it on thick, giving this strange man at the bar his brightest, sunniest smile. Drink has flushed his cheeks, and his eyes sparkle where he’s leaned against the wooden countertop, peering up into the man’s eyes.

The man he’s flirting with is taller than Jaskier, with broad shoulders and a thick beard. He’s handsome in that way that allows men to get away with things they should not get away with.

He leans closer to Jaskier, face tilting towards the room, and Geralt can finally see his eyes. The hunger in his gaze makes Geralt stand.

He turns to thank the young man, but there is only air and lingering fear. Huffing at himself for letting his guard down, he scans the tavern and catches the man’s back as he disappears into the street.

Jaskier’s laughter echoes across the room and Geralt glances back just in time to see the man’s hand shift to hover around Jaskier’s hip.

Geralt’s teeth grind and he weaves his way quickly across the floor.

“Back off,” Geralt growls over Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier jolts, spinning around and smiling up at him. He smells of drink and that familiar arousal, and Geralt hates that it’s for this stanger and not him—

“Geralt! How did you get over here so quietly—“

“Time to go,” Geralt says, not taking his eyes off the stranger. His grey eyes shift quickly between Geralt and Jaskier.

“Geralt, it’s still early…” Jaskier argues, hand trailing up the side of Geralt’s forearm.

“What are you, his keeper,” he stranger asks Geralt, thick arms crossing along his chest. The posturing is pathetic, and Geralt rolls his eyes.

Jaskier’s smile dims and he glances back at the stranger.

“Geralt, this is Braden,” Jaskier introduces, pressing a palm against Geralt’s chest.

“Braden, this is Geralt.”

“Pleasure,” Braden says, sneering.

“Jaskier,” Geralt tugs the drink from Jaskier’s hand, “let’s go.”

Braden’s sharp eyes track the hand Jaskier has pressed against Geralt’s chest. Geralt braces himself, expecting the words before the stranger says them—

“Don’t tell me you let this monster fuck you,” Braden says, too loud in the tavern’s calm atmosphere, and Jaskier’s hand against his chest turns to claws.

“Excuse me,” Jaskier snarls, puffing up immediately.

Fuck.

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries.

“No, no, no,” Jaskier says, squaring his shoulders to Braden.

“What did you just call Geralt?”

They’re starting to attract a crowd. People are glancing in their direction, clever eyes taking in the building violence. They start stepping away, making room—

Jaskier’s gearing up for a loud rant, Geralt’s seen it before, and Geralt just wants to get him _away_ —

“He’s a fucking monster,” Braden accuses, eyes lit up with a familiar fire, “and you would be better off staying away from him, not spreading you legs—“

There’s the sharp, resounding smack of skin against skin and Geralt turns so quickly a muscle in his neck twinges. Jaskier’s palm is raised, prepared to smack Braden again—

He’s going to be chastised heavily later, but Geralt just wants out of this situation as quickly as possible. Geralt slips between them, bending down to brace his shoulder around Jaskier’s hips, wrapping his around around his legs and standing.

“Geralt! Geralt, let me down. I need to have words with this man—“

“It’s not worth it,” Geralt says, walking through the tavern. Humans part easily to give them room and Geralt quickly gets them out into the street, turning and heading towards their inn.

“How dare you? Put me down! That man needs to be told—“ Jaskier bats his hands against Geralt’s back, the swats not nearly as hard as Jaskier is capable of.

“You won’t change his opinion,” Geralt says, carefully not thinking about the multitude of times in the past where he has tried to change people’s minds. Jaskier’s angry breathing shudders through his ribs, expanding and contracting high up against Geralt’s back.

“It’s not _right_ , they shouldn’t treat you like that—“

Jaskier continues to complain, gradually quieting as they approach The Blue Wyvern— their home for the evening. The wet road squelches beneath Geralt’s boots, sucking at the leather. He’ll have to clean them in the morning.

When they finally make it to the small inn, Geralt carefully lowers a now silent Jaskier to his feet, frowning at the sight of Jaskier’s glassy eyes.

“Sorry,” Geralt grunts, useless.

“What,” Jaskier asks, blinking up at him.

“While you were talking with that man, someone approached me. Warned me to get you away from Braden.”

Jaskier blinks up at him, silent.

“Seemed like he had a bad experience with the guy before. Didn’t know how to tell you without causing a scene,” Geralt says, shoulders hiking up.

“I made a scene all by myself. Didn’t need your help,” Jaskier murmurs. Geralt watches his breath puff out into the air in soft clouds. He wants to steal that breath for himself— wrap Jaskier in his arms and kiss his pink lips, brush his thumb along the edges of Jaskier’s dark eyelashes—

“We should go in,” Geralt says, “you’ll get cold.”

“Already cold,” Jaskier says. There’s an odd look in his gaze, and it makes Geralt feel…jumpy. His medallion sits heavy on his chest, so there’s no magic nearby—

“Is that the only reason you dragged me away,” Jaskier asks.

He blinks stupidly at the bard, feeling a few light drops of rain land on his face. His lungs won’t pull in a full breath—

“You know I can defend myself. I have that dagger you gave me strapped to my ankle. Why else did you interrupt us?”

Geralt glances down the street, avoiding Jaskier’s gaze—

Soft, cold fingers touch his burning jaw, shocking him into making eye contact.

Jaskier’s so close; looking up at him with such crystal clear eyes, mouth parted, lips swollen with drink. And he smells of that delicious, heady, thick arousal—

Geralt growls, tension snapping. He wraps an arm around Jaskier, spinning him to pin the bard against the side of the building and diving forward, pressing a harsh, biting kiss to Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier moans, the sound filling Geralt’s belly with heat and such overwhelming _want_ that his breath shakes against the bard lips. He presses closer, gripping the nape of Jaskier’s neck with his free hand and tilting him, pressing Jaskier’s mouth open and _taking_.

He licks and bites, tasting salt and skin and cheap ale.

“Inside,” Jaskier mumbles against Geralt’s hungry lips.

“Too cold out here,” Geralt says, knowing Jaskier’s human skin would be easily damaged by the cold if they stay out here—

“No,” Jaskier laughs against his lips, squirming in his grasp, “I mean, yes, definitely, I want you inside me—“

A pleased rumble builds low in his chest and he hums against Jaskier’s jaw, biting kisses into his soft skin. Jaskier lets out a yelp and jerks his hips against Geralt, the heat of his growing erection tugging a huff from the witcher.

“I meant in our room,” Jaskier emphasizes, hands tugging at Geralt’s biceps.

_Oh._

Geralt would feel embarrassed for his misunderstanding, but Jaksier is looking at him with blown pupils and red stained lips, open and there for the taking—

Geralt picks Jaskier up again, throwing the bard over his shoulder. Jaskier’s delighted laugh chokes on a moan as his erection presses into Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt glances down the deserted street and takes a moment to adjust himself, erection pressing painfully against the buttons of his trousers. Jaskier snickers and Geralt squeezes one of his thighs in reprimand

“Geralt,” Jaskier implores, hips shifting against his shoulder.

The walk to their room is quick, and Geralt slams the door shut, quickly tugging his shirt over his head. Jaskier fumbles with the buttons of his doublet, pausing to accept the frantic kisses Geralt presses into his lips. As soon as the doublet is gone, Geralt picks him up, this time with Jaskier’s thighs wrapping around Geralt’s waist. He walks them to the bed and drops Jaskier down onto the mattress, taking just a second to feast on the sight laid out for him.

Jaskier’s hair is mussed from their fumbling, flush high on his furred chest peeking out from his undershirt. The hard line of his erection is obvious in his pants, tenting the material obscenely. Geralt’s mouth waters and he pulls his own trousers off hastily, desperate to lay against Jaskier, to feel his skin—

A soft moan drags his eyes back up from the buttons of his trousers and the air leaves his lungs. Jaskier’s palming himself through his pants, arching his back and watching Geralt with dark, heavy lidded eyes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns, feeling his control fraying.

“Get your trousers off,” Geralt demands, tugging his own down and throwing them aside. His erection throbs between his legs, heavy and demanding, and he grips the ankles of Jaskier’s trousers, tugging until the material comes away.

Geralt has seen Jaskier naked before. It’s difficult not to, when they’re walking the Path and washing in the same rivers. But this is different. Knowing he’s the one to put Jaskier in this state is intoxicating.

Not letting himself think any longer, he climbs onto the bed, hands sliding up Jaskier’s sides and tugging his undershirt up and off. He leans down at licks and bites at Jaskier’s chest, reveling in the thick chest hair and strong muscle—

Jaskier mumbles his name, voice wavering.

Geralt drags his mouth to Jaskier’s neck, pinching skin between his teeth, dragging his erection along Jaskier’s—

“Geralt, wait,” Jaskier says, palms pressing to the witcher’s chest. Geralt rears backs, heart thudding.

_What’s wrong?_

“No, don’t do that,” Jaskier says, hands reaching for him.

“Sorry, sorry, I should have said ‘slow down,’” Jaskier corrects, blushing in embarrassment.

Slow down?

What does that mean?

For the hundredth time that evening Geralt finds himself blinking down at Jaskier, lost for words. Jaskier’s eyes dart around the room, and Geralt’s chest caves in.

“Want to stop,” he asks, hating the resignation in his voice.

“No,” Jaskier demands, hands tangling in Geralt’s hair and leaning up to press kisses along the witcher’s jaw.

“Just… slow,” Jaskier requests again, and Geralt nods, figuring he’ll just follow Jaskier’s lead.

Jaskier tugs him back down so their chests press together. He wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and presses their lips together with care, licking at Geralt’s lips and sighing against him. Okay, Geralt can do this.

Jaskier snakes a hand between them, holding their erections together. Pleasure spikes up Geralt’s spine, but he waits for Jaskier’s lead. The bard rolls his hips slowly and Geralt follows, tension melting away at the slow glide of skin against skin. Their arousal smells mix deliciously, building slowly in the room, filling their space. He gets lost in the moment, time disappearing as they trade kisses and press together. This is new, Geralt decides, and good, and he wants to stay here forever.

He’s peripherally aware of Jaskier reaching towards the nightstand, but he can’t be bothered to care— until a small vial of oil is pressed into his hands. 

“Hmm,” Geralt hesitates, and Jaskier gives Geralt an encouraging smile, spreading his thighs wide.

The heat boils up in his chest again, and he forces himself to go slow— to thoroughly coat his fingers in oil and lean close, carefully pressing one, then two fingers into the bard, watching for any sign of discomfort. He quickly finds the spot within Jaskier that makes him flinch and jerk his hips up, pre-cum dripping from his erection.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whines, pressing back against his fingers, and Geralt decides this is his new favorite sight (and sound, and smell—).

“Geralt, inside me,” Jaskier insists, calm disappearing as his hands scrabble for Geralt’s biceps. Geralt fumbles with the oil, his own eagerness coming back tenfold, quickly slicking his own aching erection and tossing the bottle aside.

Gripping the meat of Jaskier’s thighs, Geralt tugs him close, then reaches down to guide himself into Jaskier’s heat.

He’s _tight_ , and Geralt has to press hard—

Jaskier’s nails dig into his back, muscles clamping down as Geralt breaches him. Geralt freezes at the sharp smell of anxiety.

“Give me a moment,” Jaskier demands, voice tight. Geralt stays still, trying to think of anything except how deliciously tight and hot Jaskier is around him—

Jaskier relaxes incrementally, anxiety quickly dissipating, and Geralt presses forward again, slowly, until his hips are flush against Jaskier’s thighs.

He glances down and groans, deep and satisfied, mesmerized by the sight of himself buried in the bard up to the hilt, stretching Jaskier wide. He breathes slowly, hands gripping Jaskier’s waist and tilting the bard’s hips so he can get a better view. Jaskier’s thick erection drools precum onto his belly, twitching with Geralt’s attention. The site is unraveling his control and he glances up.

Jaskier’s watching him with wide eyes filled to the brim with something unnamable— something Geralt has never seen before. He’s smiling, hands tangled in the sheets above his head, heart open and exposed—

Geralt abruptly cannot stand it and leans down, biting a kiss into Jaskier’s shoulder and hiding his face against Jaskier’s neck.

He can’t catch his breath

His skin is too small for his body— he’ll split open at the seams—

“Shh,” Jaskier whispers, breath warm and soft in his ear. His hands come down, smoothing languorously along Geralt’s spine, as though he has all the time in the world.

It makes Geralt jumpy. He knows he’s started something that will end in disaster, and he really has to soak up as much of the bard as he can, because come morning—

“Easy, darling,” Jaskier says, thighs squeezing against Geralt’s hips, grounding him.

“We have all night,” Jaskie says, and the ache in Geralt’s chest gapes open. All night. One night.

Jaskier’s hand’s tugs at the tie in his hair, tossing it away and running his hands along Geralt’s scalp, brushing through the loose locks and massaging against his scalp. It’s such a calming, soothing gesture that Geralt feels himself melt, humming against Jaskier’s neck.

“That’s it,” Jaskier says, pressing his swollen lips against Geralt’s cheek and along his jaw. Geralt gives in, turning to press their lips together, running his tongue along the bard’s soft mouth. Jaskier opens for him eagerly, sighing against his tongue.

Geralt rolls his hips slowly, refusing to give up Jaskier’s lips, savoring every choked off breath and blissful sigh as he builds an easy rhythm. Jaskier writhes against him, breathing picking up with Geralt’s thrusts.

Geralt shifts his knees against the bed and tilts his hips, rolling his hips and eliciting a surprised yelp-groan from the bard that has Geralt smiling wickedly.

“There,” Jaskier demands, hands pulling at Geralt’s back.

“Again, there—“ he babbles, writhing frantically. Geralt gives in easily, rolling his hips hard into Jaskier, feeling his climax building low in his spine. Jaskier’s hand drops to his erection, tugging in time with Geralt’s thrusts.

Geralt growls, batting his hand away and replacing Jaskier’s hand with his own. He squeezes and pulls, reveling in the hot warmth weight of Jaskier his hand— the way Jaskier clenches down on him when he rubs a thumb into the weeping slit.

“Geralt,” Jaskier warns, hands knotting in the sheets as Geralt’s thrusts jar him against the mattress.

Geralt brings his other hand down to cup Jaskier’s balls, holding them close against the bard’s body and rubbing insistently below the head, grinding his hips deep into Jaskier’s body.

Jaskier’s mouth drops open and his eyes roll back as he spills, chest heaving as spend coating his chest. He throbs and jerks in Geralt’s hand, squeezing tight around him. It’s too much and Geralt gasps, climax jolted out of him. He spills within Jaskier, jerking and grinding his hips into the bard, completely overwhelmed.

At some point he collapses down onto Jaskier— the bard letting out a soft “oof” of surprise and winding his arms around Geralt’s waist, holding him close.

By the time he gets his breath back Jaskier is squirming beneath him. No doubt his hips are aching from being spread so wide, and Geralt can’t help but feel pleasantly possessive.

He braces a palm against Jaskier’s belly in warning, digging his fingers into the dark hair as he shifts his hips away, pulling away from the bard’s warmth.

Jaskier lets out a shocked sound, but Geralt quickly collapses back onto him, pinning Jaskier to the bed.

He manages to summon energy to grab a towel and wipe them both down, but as soon as Geralt is wrapped back around Jaskier he drops into weightless unconsciousness.

\---

Jaskier’s back is warm against his chest. He runs a palm along Jaskier’s belly, memorizing the soft skin and the strong muscle underneath.

His body aches in the best possible way and he feels calmer than he has in a very, very long time.

He buries his face in Jaskier’s hair, breathing Jaskier’s scent deep into his lungs and sighing.

Fuck.

Geralt’s eyes snap open.

Sun pierces through the window, blinding him. He squeezes his eyes shut, a familiar ache coalescing in his chest. This is where everything goes to shit.

He doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to. But he untangles himself from Jaskier, frown tugging at his lips as he turns to place his feet on the cold floor. A soft hand brushes along his lower back.

“Where’re you goin,” Jaskier asks, voice fuzzy with sleep.

Geralt pauses. He has no answer.

“Come back,” Jaskier implores, fingers pressing against Geralt’s skin.

“I really want to blow you soon, but you have to be close by for me to do that,” Jaskier says, familiar teasing tone back in his voice.

All the terror slips away like sand through his fingers.

Of course.

Jaskier wasn’t scared off by kikimore guts, by wyverns, by ghosts or nekkers or hags…

How could he think the bard would abandon him now? It seems a disservice to think so, now, after everything…

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jaskier says, reading his mind.

With far too much relief, Geralt slips back under the sheets, gathering Jaskier in his arms and pressing a palm against Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier strokes his hands along Geralt’s forearms.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jaskier repeats, “so don’t you go anywhere either, okay?”

The sudden hint of strain in Jaskier’s voice is horrible, and Geralt hums agreement into the bard’s hair, pressing a kiss to his neck.

“Not going anywhere,” Geralt promises, feeling Jaskier melt back into his arms.

His routine has changed enormously since the bard joined him on the path, but Geralt finds himself looking forward to this particular change in routine.


	10. raw and hopeless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt misinterprets an overheard conversation, much to Jaskier's annoyance.

Jaskier is hopeless. He knows it, this tavern knows it, and now the two lovely women sitting across the table from him know it.

“I’m completely, utterly hopeless,” he slurs, taking another swallow of the surprisingly potent ale from today’s tavern.

The two women murmur in either agreement or consolation— he can’t really parse the two at the moment— but they’re drinking with him, and they’re pretty, and they complimented his singing earlier, so he assumes they’re sympathizing with him.

“What do you mean, dear,” the pretty woman with curly hair asks, soft hand touching his wrist. Annie. That’s her name.

“Well, darling, I’m a romantic who fell in love with a witcher. What could be more hopeless than that?”

Jaskier’s heart aches and he takes another long gulp of ale in a futile attempt to quell the burn. The cause of his heartache is sitting across the tavern, hidden away and avoiding human interaction as he’s wont to do.

Jaskier would normally sit with him, but Geralt is being especially grumpy today and Jaskier just wants to drown his sorrows with a sympathetic ear. And Annie and...Jessia— that’s the other lady’s name— Annie and Jessia are very sympathetic. They keep shooting curious glances over Jaskier’s shoulder towards Geralt and patting Jaskier’s hands. Jessia’s light eyes linger on Geralt whenever she glances towards his hiding spot.

“I know, he’s gorgeous, isn’t he?”

“I mean,” Jessia starts, twisting a long lock of hair around her long nailed fingers. “If you go for the mysterious, dangerous type, then perhaps…”

Jaskier’s alcohol soaked brain has a flicker of clarity— a small warning that Jessia’s gaze holds more fear than interest—

“The glowing yellow eyes are certainly something else,” Annie says, and that is definitely interest in her voice.

“I couldn’t agree more, darling. He doesn’t even realize…he thinks he’s monstrous! And the only thing about him that’s monstrous is his grumpy attitude. And only sometimes, like today. Today he snapped at me for singing to his horse!”

They make disapproving sounds and Jaskier revels in their sympathy.

“I know! Granted, I _was_ singing the same verse over and over— but it needed reworking and sometimes I need to hear things aloud to work them out…”

Jaskier curls his shoulders in, remembering the hurt of Geralt’s harsh words.

“Anyway, I’m hopeless. Sure, he’s handsome and heroic and— despite his attitude— very kind and caring, but let me tell you—“

Jaskier waves his fingers in Jessia’s face. She gives him a fairly unimpressed look, blinking narrowed eyes at him.

“Sometimes—“ Jaskier pauses to take a drink in emphasis. “Sometimes, he eats _raw meat_!”

Annie makes a surprised snort into her ale and Jessia’s lip curls.

“Yes, ladies! He butchers an animal and eats it raw, right in front of my eyes.”

“Doesn’t that make him sick,” Jessia asks, lips curled in disgust.

“No! It’s fine for him, but I have to _witness_ this behavior. And! And! He never brushes his hair and it gets all tangled and dirty— and he always smells of blood!”

“You’re not painting a pretty picture of him,” Annie says, eyes steady on the witcher sitting across the room.

“Your songs would have us believe he’s perfect,” she says, and Jessia snorts into her drink.

“He _is_ ,” Jaskier insists. “He’s perfect despite it all. I’m just a foolish bard in love with a witcher who will never love him back. So you see,” Jaskier murmurs, turning woeful eyes up to his captivated audience of two.

“I’m hopeless.”

\---

Jaskier doesn’t really think of the conversation when he wakes up in the morning, though he does feel a prickly moment of consternation for his maudlin behavior. He had accepted his situation nearly a year ago, and there’s really no use being upset about it. He will keep following Geralt until he’s told to stop, and even then he will put up a fight.

They leave town quickly, heading north for a potential wraith contract. Jaskier’s quite, a headache hovering at his temples from the lingering alcohol. Luckily Geralt doesn’t say anything— he just leads them out onto the Path, mumbling to Roach every once in a while as they slowly weave their way into a dense redwood forest.

\---

Of course— because the Gods like to taunt Jaskier— as soon as his headache lifts rain starts pounding down on them. It’s a cold, hard rain— the kind that stings the skin and numbs fingers. The tall, fragrant redwoods obscure their path and sway and creak with the weather. The sun passed it’s zenith hours ago and the trees are only growing thicker, so there’s no hope to reach a tavern this evening.

He’s about to open his mouth and ask Geralt what the plan is when the witcher suddenly turns towards him and backs Jaskier up under some dense tree foliage. The dirt at the base of the tree is dry and Jaskier sighs at the reprieve from falling water.

“Wait here,” he says, handing Roach’s lead over.

Jaskier bites down on his tongue with the command, willing his body to _behave_.

“Where are you going—“ Jaskier tries, but Geralt turns without another word, stepping out into the downpour.

Jaskier watches the rain dance off his broad shoulders, haloing light along his frame until he vanishes into the trees.

He shivers, reaching out to stroke Roach’s velvet nose. She nudges against his hand, ears flicking in search of Geralt.

“He’ll be back soon, dear, don’t you worry.”

Unaffected by his poor attempts at comfort, her ears keep twitching, listening intently.

\---

The sun is dipping low in the sky by the time Geralt reappears. One moment Jaskier is alone, peacefully stroking Roach’s nose, and the next Geralt looms over him, dripping rainwater onto his shoulder. Jaskier is man enough to admit that he yelps and flinches, surprising a huff out of Roach and making her dance about with anxiety.

“Easy,” Geralt mumurs, taking Roach’s lead and stroking her neck. Jaskier doesn’t know if he’s talking to the horse or him, but either way the sound of his voice calms Jaskier’s nerves.

“What—“

“This way,” Geralt says, leading him out into the rain. Jaskier is reluctant to follow— his toes and fingers have moved past stinging to numb, his lips burn, and a constant shiver has settled along his limbs.

But Geralt steps out into the rain and waits for him, so Jaskier sucks in a breath and forces his legs to follow.

\---

It would have been a short walk if the weather was decent, but it seems to take forever before Geralt leads them to the slim mouth of a cave.

Jaskier hurries inside, relieved to be out of the relentless rain. Swiping water out of his eyes, he takes stock of their situation.

It looks like a deep cave, judging by the abyss of darkness lingers about 50 feet from the entrance. The narrow entrance widens out to a larger interior wide enough for the three of them to stand with plenty of room between them. It’s tall enough for Roach to stand by the entrance, shaking herself off like a dog as soon as she notices the dry air.

“I’ll start a fire by the entrance,” Jaskier says, looking around the cave floor for dry tree branches.

When there’s not response Jaskier turns to find the witcher has disappeared _again_.

“He’s impossible,” Jaskier tells Roach, wringing the hem of his doublet out. She watches him, unimpressed.

By the time Geralt returns (with two large hare carcasses dripping red from his right hand) the sun has set and Jaskier’s doublet and undershirt are drying on a makeshift rack by his small fire.

Geralt blinks at his bare chest for much too long before dropping the dead animals next to the fire and pulling his armor off.

\--- 

They’re sitting in their trousers by the meager flames, soaking up the warmth and letting the hares cook slowly when Geralt breaks the silence.

“I don’t have to eat it raw,” Geralt says, glowing eyes watching the slow turn of the hares over the fire.

Jaskier blinks, trying to follow the witcher’s train of thought.

“Excuse me,” he asks. And now Geralt looks uncomfortable— shoulders hunched, eyes darting around the floor.

“I just get hungry, sometimes,” he says, jaw clenching, as though he’s confessing to some mortal sin. Jaskier’s heart burns in his chest at the horrible look on Geralt’s face— a puppy waiting to be swatted—

“What are you talking about,” Jaskier asks, a tornado of dread and butterflies swirling through his belly.

“You don’t like it,” Geralt grits out between his teeth.

Jaskier gapes at him.

“Okay, you’re going to have to spell this out for me because I am not following—“

“You don’t like when I eat raw meat,” Geralt snaps.

Oh.

“Okay,” Jaskier acknowledges, “yes, I mean—“

Geralt’s shoulders draw up and he talks over Jaskier:

“You don’t like that I don’t brush my hair. And I smell of blood,” Geralt says, voice going soft, and _oh no._

Jaskier’s heart cracks wide open at the small, sad frown that tugs at Geralt’s mouth.

And then a chasm of mortification opens beneath him as the previous night rushes back.

_Oh no._

“You could hear me,” he asks, and his skin flushes painfully as Geralt nods, slit pupils fixated on the flickering orange flames. Jaskier is briefly tempted to walk back out into the rain just to cool his burning skin.

In his drunken state Jaskier had forgotten that Geralt can hear much more than humans can. Of course he could hear Jaskier confess his feelings to two strangers—

“Wait,” Jaskier throws his hands out, blinking rapidly. “Wait, this is what you’re taking away from what I said? While I was drunk, mind you—“

“Jaskier,” Geralt runs a hand through his hair, grimacing as his fingers get caught in a tangle.

“Nope, we are talking about this,” Jaskier snaps, marching over to the witcher. Geralt gives him a wide eyed, reproachful look.

“Don’t you look at me like that,” Jaskier snaps, and with feather light fingers he circles Geralt’s wrist, removing his fingers from the tangled white strands.

He kneels behind the witcher, gathering his hair behind his head and slowly detangling it with careful fingers.

The witcher’s shoulders are locked tight, rainwater shimmering on his skin and dripping between the valleys of muscle and scarred flesh. Jaskier blinks rapidly, trying to focus.

“Now, did you actually listen to what I said? Or did you just pick out the bits of me complaining about your hygiene?”

Geralt grumbles, noncommittal, and Jaskier tugs delicately at a couple strands of hair, earning a huff in return.

“That’s what I thought,” he reprimands.

He carefully slides a knot out of Geralt’s hair, relishing the soft, pretty strands, working up his courage.

Geralt shifts, tilting his head to the side in a familiar “I heard something interesting” gesture.

“Why are you nervous,” Geralt asks, glowing eyes darting around the cave, searching for a threat.

“There’s no one else here,” he reassures, and Jaskier takes a deep breath, heart swelling with affection at Geralt’s concern.

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts, making up his mind and shifting to kneel in front of the witcher.

He looks so innocent despite the tough, frowning appearance. His eyes dart up and away from Jaskier’s gaze as though one word from the bard could strike him down.

It gives Jaskier the last bit of courage he needs to confess.

“My dear, didn’t you hear the part where I said I love you?”

His heart pounds in his throat, blood rushing in his ears. Geralt’s brows smooth out, though not completely—

“You were drunk—“

“Must I repeat myself? It’s mortifying. Do you get off on me spilling my guts everywhere?”

A muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitches.

“I’m hopelessly in love with you,” Jaskier whispers, throat going taught, “ _despite_ your habit of eating raw meat— which I understand is a witcher thing— and I was just complaining because, again, I’m mortifyingly in love with you and you’ll never—“

His throat slams closed.

Melitele’s tits. Why is he getting emotional _now_? He almost made it through his speech, and his eyes have started to burn and his fingers are shaking—

He takes a deep breath, forcing his vocal cords to unlock.

“And I don’t expect you to…it’s just…I have to complain sometimes, okay? Because I am just human, and unrequited love _hurts_ —“

Warm, soft lips press against his, stunning him into silence. Geralt’s lips are softer than he thought they would be— full and warm against his, and chaste in a way that makes Jaskier’s chest constrict.

Geralt pulls away but stays close, eyes squeezed closed, breathing the same air.

“Not unrequited,” he mumurs, low enough that Jaskier questions whether or not he actually heard that—

“Oh.”

His heart opens up wide, lungs filling too quickly, so much so that they must be close to bursting—

Geralt hums, shifting on his knees until he’s in Jaskier’s space, pressing their lips together again. Pleasure shocks through him at the press of Geralt’s tongue against his lips and he opens his mouth easily, eagerly, inviting Geralt to take advantage.

Geralt leans over him, pressing him back until he’s lying against the rough cave floor and pressing his tongue between Jaskier’s teeth. Hot blush burns his cheeks as Geralt grips behind his knees and spreads his thighs, making space for the witcher’s wide hips.

He’s gorgeous— looming over Jaskier, breathing heavily, hair dripping rainwater onto Jaskier’s cheeks. His lips are flushed red with their kisses, and the look in his eyes is all consuming and full of a fire that Jaskier wants to burn within.

“Am I still drunk?”

The question tears out of him, unbidden, because he _must_ be drunk. This cannot possibly be real—

Geralt grins wickedly at his question, leaning down and pressing his nose against Jaskier’s neck. He breathes deeply, making Jaskier squirm, wondering what exactly the witcher smells on him.

“No, not drunk,” Geralt confirms, and his voice has pitched lower than normal, lower that Jaskier thought possible—

“Geralt…”

“You smell of heat,” Geralt growls, the words rumbling against Jaskier’s throat. His dick twitches with the witcher’s words, half hard and filling quickly.

“You smell of animal heat,” Geralt explains, hands sliding to his bare waist and gripping the flesh of his hips.

“O-Oh,” Jaskier asks, failing horribly at sounding nonchalant.

“Hmm,” Geralt murmurs against his skin, taking another deep breath.

“And you smell of peppermint oil. And rain. And me.”

Sharp, strong teeth nip at his shoulder and Jaskier’s hips jolt with arousal. Geralt licks at the bruising flesh, grinning.

“Don’t be smug, you oaf,” Jaskier whines, hands going to Geralt’s biceps and Gods, have his arms always been that big?

Without warning Geralt spreads his thighs, forcing Jaskier’s legs wider, and drops down, pressing them together from chest to pelvis.

Jaskier gasps embarrassingly, hips jerking up against the hot length he can feel trapped in Geralt’s soaking trousers. He has seen Geralt naked— of course he has— and he knows the witcher is well endowed, but this seems _obscene_.

Jaskier’s skin burns where their pectorals press together and Gods Jasker desperately wants to get his hands on Geralt’s chest—

“Geralt,” he moans, gripping at the witcher’s bare back, burning heat flooding his numbed limbs.

Soft lips press to his mouth, swallowing his moan, and thick fingers tug at the bard’s trousers. The wet fabric sticks to his skin, making it a struggle to get naked.

And Geralt seems reluctant to part their mouths, even to pull Jaskier’s pants off. They manage eventually and Jaskier gets a swift look at Geralt before the witcher presses them back together. Geralt _is_ well endowed, and _pretty_ , and Jaskier vows to himself that he will get a more up close and personal view later—

It’s been a while since he’s lain with a man, and when he tells Geralt this the witcher’s eyes blow wide, slit pupils turning to the size of orens. A familiar muscle in his jaw ticks and he bites at Jaskier’s lips, sucking at his skin and raising bruises along his neck.

They’re too keyed up to do anything besides rut against each other, high on their confessions.

“Tomorrow,” Geralt promises, licking along the curve of Jaskier’s neck, “tomorrow I’ll find an inn, and we won’t leave the room all day.”

Jaskier whines, hands fluttering over Geralt’s chest, unsure where to touch.

Geralt takes the option away, shifting his knees forward and leaning up to loom over the bard. His hands are steel against Jaskier’s hips, pinning him to the ground as Geralt sets up a hard, jerking pace, rutting them together.

The rough cave ground digs into his back with each jerk, but Jaskier couldn’t care less at the moment. He can’t catch his breath— overwhelmed with the hard, hot slide of Geralt’s erection against his belly, nudging their erections together with each rolling thrust—

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s voice rumbles through the air, dark and predatory, and Jaskier heeds the unvoiced plea, reaching down and taking Geralt’s erection in hand. He hears Geralt’s breath hitch at his touch and he smirks, teasing his fingers over the dripping head of Geralt’s erection before pressing him down against Jaskier’s belly. He stretches, arching his back and moaning, giving Geralt a show—

Geralt crashes down on top of him, bruising the bard’s lips with his kiss, consuming his breath as he rolls his hips into Jaskier. He’s going to have bruises across his stomach tomorrow and heat swells in his pelvis with the knowledge— pre-cum spilling on his stomach and slicking the way for Geralt’s thrusts.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes beneath the witcher’s mouth, “darling, come for me.”

Geralt moans, breath hitching as he erection jerking in Jaskier’s grasp. Geralt spills against his stomach in hot, sharp jerks and Jaskier follows quickly, climax shocked out of him.

Geralt’s full bodyweight collapses onto him as they try to catch their breath. Tomorrow his hips will ache and he’ll be littered with bruises, and no doubt Geralt will be embarrassed. He looks forward to ribbing the witcher, but for the moment he revels in this quiet space. Rain continues to pummel the earth outside. Roach snorts from her space by the entrance of the cave. The fire crackles and pops.

Jaskier has never felt safer, pinned in place by the witcher’s bulk. He trails a hand along Geralt’s spine, fingers skating over old, raised scars, running through rainwater and sweat. Geralt hums at the touch, pressing his nose into Jaskier’s hair and breathing deeply.

“Now you really smell like me.”

Taken aback, Jaskier can’t help the loud laughter that bursts from him. He squirms beneath Geralt, overjoyed, chest fit to burst with happiness—

“I should complain about your hygiene more often if this is how it turns out,” Jaskier smirks, running a hand through Geralt’s hair, fingers catching in fresh knots from their vigorous lovemaking.

Geralt hums, closing his eyes and burying his face against Jaskier’s neck, completely unbothered. Jaskier continues combing his hands through the long white strands, completely baffled by how the day has turned out.

“Geralt, dear,” Jaskier starts, anxiety flickering to life at the back of his mind.

Geralt presses his lips to the swell of Jaskier’s pectoral to indicate he’s listening.

“I’m perfectly happy to brush your hair for you. And you don’t _really_ smell of blood….only sometimes, after you’ve killed some monster. I don’t mind. And don’t you dare stop yourself from eating when you’re hungry. Not on my account. Not on anyone’s account.”

Geralt’s shoulders had tensed with Jaskier’s words, but he feels the witcher nod against his chest, relaxing back into his loose state when Jaskier’s fingers continue their soothing, rhythmic motion through the witcher’s hair.

“Go to sleep, bard,” Geralt mumbles, “you’ll need your energy if I’m to keep my promise for tomorrow.”

Jaskier laughs, the sound echoing through their small cave, and Geralt's happy smirk chases away the last remnants of cold from Jaskier's body.


	11. stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has taken a stranger to bed in the room next to Geralt. Geralt can hear everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, hastily written, cliche smut for your Sunday. :)

Geralt’s teeth are going to crack. He’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with his teeth set and his hands fisted at his sides, desperately trying to keep himself under control.

Jaskier is in the room next to him, and he’s not alone. Geralt had watched him flirt relentlessly with a handsome, broad-shouldered man in the tavern bar below them, pulling out all his tricks to get the stranger into bed. Based on the stranger's glittering eyes and wide grin, Jaskier's seduction was very, very welcome. 

He hid in his corner for a while, mindlessly drinking his lukewarm ale and failing to block out Jaskier’s flirting. He didn't normally get so maudlin when Jaskier looked for company for the evening, and Geralt knew that Jaskier’s attentions were not dependent on gender—it’s just that it ached a bit more when Jaskier’s attention strayed towards men who _weren’t Geralt_. When one of the stranger's broad palms reached out and pressed into the dip of Jaskier's lower back (a place that Geralt desperately wanted to feel beneath his own fingers) Geralt stood and headed towards his room, wanting to sleep off the burning pain growing in his chest. He tugs off his armor and clothes, falling naked onto the bed and staring at the peeling ceiling as the sun disappears below the horizon. With a flick of his wrist he lights the rooms candles with Igni, not wanting to be consumed by the dark of night just yet.

It isn’t long before hears Jaskier’s elevated heartbeat enter the room next to him, accompanied by another, equally elevated heartbeat— the stranger. Geralt tries to muffle the sounds at first, futilely pressing his palms to his ears and frowning hard when it fails to block out the sounds of Jaskier and the stranger kissing.

The soft sighs and the tell tale shift of fabric as it’s pulled from skin and dropped to the floor break Geralt’s resolve and he sighs, fisting his hands in the bed sheets, determined to wait it out.

Geralt should be able to meditate and filter out any auditory stimulus, but it’s _Jaskier_ , and the bard always manages to sideline Geralt’s attention. He might have been able to trick himself into thinking it’s someone else, but Geralt knows Jaskier’s smell, and the sound of his heartbeat, and Jaskier _talks_ _so much_ — even in bed, apparently.

“Lay on the bed for me, darling,” Jaskier’s voice croons, velvet soft and tempting, and the bed creaks with added weight.

Geralt finds himself blinking in surprise, a sharp jolt of lust spiking through his stomach.

“That’s it, dear, you just lay back and let me take care of you,” Jaskier breathes, and there’s the friction sound of skin against skin, and then kissing— slow and deep— wet, hungry— and Geralt’s traitorous body floods with a desperate want, dick filling against his hip. He groans through his teeth, frantically shoving away the fantasy image that his mind conjures of Jaskier leaning over _him_ , kissing _him_ and not some handsome, nameless stranger he met in the tavern bar—

His neglected dick throbs at the impossible image, leaking pre-spend against his belly with the sound of Jaskier’s soft hums and wet kisses.

Geralt squirms, hot shame filling him as his resolve breaks. He releases one fist from the bed sheets and reaches down, dick twitching at the first touch of his fingers. He lets out a shaky breath, sliding his fingers along his length, relishing the feeling of soft skin over iron heat. He hums, shifting to brace his feet against the bed and spreading his legs wider, hyperaware of the empty space where Jaskier should be between his thighs—

He frowns sharply. Jaskier would be appalled to know how Geralt is betraying him—violating him—

The sound of a clinking glass splits the air, and the liquid sound of oil slides across skin. The fabric in Geralt’s still clenched hand creaks, close to ripping—

“On your belly, darling,” Jaskier says, fabric rustling as the two bodies shift on the bed.

“Spread your thighs for me,” the bard demands softly, and Geralt slams his eyes shut, assaulted by the image of Jaskier leaning over some stranger, braced between their thighs, dick hard and leaking. Geralt spread his thighs wider, setting up a slow rhythm with his hand, tugging gently at his heavy balls to keep orgasm from creeping up on him. He listens to the sound of Jaskier prepping the stranger, mumbling encouragement in their ear and hushing their whines for more. All too soon there’s a rushed shuffling and the stranger sucks in a sharp breath and cries out. Geralt flinches, squeezing himself hard and squeezing his eyes closed, desperate want clanging against his ribs with enough force to make him gasp.

“Easy, dear— relax for me,” Jaskier croons, and Geralt listens, melting in to the mattress and holding himself still. There’s a long pause as Jaskier settles in, pressing kisses to the stranger’s skin and waiting for them to adjust to his size. Geralt slowly picks up the tugging motion against his dick, rubbing his thumb softly along the leaking slit and listening to the slick sounds of Jaskier’s smooth first thrusts.

“You’re so tight, darling— so good for me—“ Jaskier chokes out, and Geralt’s chest burns and he grimaces, embarrassment thick in his throat even as he jerks himself harder, pre-spend dripping copiously from the head of his erection—

It’s not long before the stranger starts pleading for more and Geralt groans through his teeth at the sound of skin on skin as Jaskier gives in, rutting into his partner with hard, rolling thrusts—

Geralt lets go of the strained bedsheets, dipping his teeth into his own wrist to muffle the sounds he wants to make as he sets up a tugging rhythm to the same beat of Jaskier’s thrusts, imagining it was him being pressed into the mattress, legs spread wide for Jaskier—

His hips jolt up against his fist without his consent, desperate, and he has to pause and squeeze the base of his erection, staving off orgasm, the flush of shame burning in his chest brighter and brighter, consuming him.

There are mumbled words next door, and Geralt is too distracted to hear them, but the next second there’s the slap of skin on skin— a firm strike, like a hand to buttocks— and the stranger cries out, ecstatic.

It’s too much and Geralt hears a high, thin whine escape his own throat, dick throbbing in his hand even as his skin lights up in mortification.

The combined oil-slick thrusting and the occasional slap has Geralt giving in and thrusting up into hsi own fist, climax rising up quickly— 

The sounds halt abruptly and Jaskier lets out a cut off groan as he spills in his partner.

_“Geralt.”_

Geralt grunts, eyes snapping wide open as his climax is shocked out of him— hot, thick spend spilling against his own belly and up to his chest. His slow heart starts to pound as he listens to Jaskier’s embarrassed bed partner yelp and shove him out of the bed. There’s hurried, anxious conversation before Jaskier is unceremoniously thrown from the room— the slammed door echoing throughout the tavern and eliciting grumbles from multiple patrons.

Laying against the bed, dick still in hand, Geralt debates getting up to hide the evidence of what he’s done.

His name from Jaskier’s lips— spoken with such reverence that Geralt has never heard before— ricochets through his chest, dissolving the ache that had set up residence over the past several months and replacing it with a daring hope that Geralt is very unfamiliar with.

He should probably hide the evidence of what he’s done. He should probably pretend he hasn’t heard anything.

Jaskier’s familiar frantic knocks at the door makes the decision for him and he stands, feeling his spend slide down his stomach as he walks naked to the door.


End file.
